


Before the Eyes of Gods and Men (Discontinued / To Be Re-Written)

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Secret Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 51
Words: 49,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2562902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a day like many others Sansa is called to stand before King Joffrey in the great hall of the Red Keep. She expects to hear of another of her brother's victories and her back already aches with the pain of a fresh beating, but to Sansa's surprise she finds she is not alone in the hall.  </p><p>Tywin Lannister has agreed to send Sansa Stark to Khal Drogo in hopes of avoiding a costly and inconvenient war with ten thousand Dothraki Screamers. Now fully grown and as beautiful as Cersei Lannister once was, the Hand of the King hopes that the eldest Stark girl will be pleasing enough to postpone a war. But what Tywin Lannister does not expect is that a girl once soft as a flower petal is now strong as Valyrian steel and she will pay her debts. </p><p>Composed in a world where Daenerys Targaryen had never married Khal Drogo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This work mostly revolves around Sansa Stark but many other characters will make appearances. Each chapter features the point of view of a different character and throughout the story, we will travel all over Westeros, Essos, and Sothoros.

_Sansa Stark_

Sansa Stark entered the great hall of the Red Keep quietly. She held her hands folded delicately in her lap and her eyes downcast, taking small steps and attempting to make as little noise as possible, though with each step her heavy boots echoed in the marble hall.

Her hair had been combed and styled by her handmaiden in the Southern fashion, her auburn hair braided and piled atop her head. She had been asked to dress in the finest dress she owned and had chosen to wear a floor length lavender gown, a gift from Cersei. She had clipped a golden belt around her thin waist and a matching bracelet at her wrist, the only thing of value she owned.

Sansa felt strange as she looked upon her reflection in the mirror Shae had presented. _Too much like Cersei Lannister_ , she thought.

Tyrion Lannister offered her his arm and she was grateful that she did not have to cross the long hall alone.

Standing before the Iron Throne Sansa looked up at Joffrey Baratheon, the blonde boy reclining in his seat, his legs spread wide and a smile etched over his face. As soon as the double doors had opened and the eldest Stark girl had entered Joffrey’s eyes had lit up.

The Hand of the King was beside Joffrey and Cersei was on his other side. In that moment the only thing the three Lannisters shared was the look in their eyes as they stared down at Sansa. It was as if they were staring at their prey. _Lions looking down on a piece of meat._

"Good morning, your grace." she said evenly. Her voice was cool and tempered, as it always was. Sansa had learned the skill early on, Cersei Lannister hammering pleasantries and kindness into her as a blacksmith hammers a piece of metal, leaving nothing but what she had instilled.

Joffrey ignored her, as he always did and turned instead to his grandfather.

"Sansa Stark." said Tywin Lannister. His voice was cold and dark and deep, his eyes as cruel as his tone of voice. He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward in his seat to stare down at the girl.

With six sets of light eyes on her Sansa might as well have been naked. "Yes, your grace?" replied she.

"We have made a decision about you." Joffrey interrupted. He seemed almost giddy, his legs crossing and uncrossing with excitement.

Sansa felt as though she had been struck. The breath left her lungs in a rush and she nearly fell to her knees. _This is it_ , thought she. _I'm to be beheaded like my father._

She felt a great ambivalence eating away at her. Sansa Stark had often considered her death, thinking it the only way to escape the Lannisters. She had even tried to hurry her meeting with the Gods on more than one occasion.

Sandor Clegane had stopped her from jumping from the balcony of her solar. He had found her balanced on the thin railing, her toes hanging over the red rail and her skirts billowing in the wind and had exclaimed, cursing under his breath and grabbing her roughly around the arm.

Her legs had become twisted in her skirts as she fell, her foot catching between two spokes of the rail and cracking sickeningly. But Sandor had pulled her to him, like he had that one night during the battle at Blackwater and she had cried.

Sansa had cried so hard that she had ruined the silk of his white cloak, apologizing profusely before offering to mend it for him. But the massive knight had said nothing, only offered his handkerchief and moved down the hall, allowing the door to slam loudly shut behind him.

"Your grace?" said Sansa.

She felt sick to her stomach, on the verge of turning out her breakfast right then and there on the polished marble floor. Joffrey looked down smugly at her, his pursy lips turned upwards in a smile and his eyes twinkling like saltwater emeralds.

Sandor Clegane stood at his side, his hair long and greasy, hanging limply over the side of his burned face. He looked uneasy, his hands crossed before him and his eyes falling to the hilt of his sword as if he was not sure if he would soon need to draw it.

Sansa remembered the day Myrcella had been sent to Dorne. On the way back to the castle one of the common people had thrown a cowpie at Joffrey and he had called for their heads. _A fool King. An idiot King_ , she thought. They had left her without even a single guard for her protection, the men in their crimson cloaks that many called heroes rushing from a young girl in the crowd.

Sansa oft remembered that day. The common people had grabbed her, torn her dress and thrown her to the ground among the mud and nightsoil. Sometimes she could even feel their hands on her, cold and sweaty and stinking of fish and dirt. But Sandor…the guard had killed them all

King Joffrey looked on the verge of dancing he was so pleased. "Sansa Stark you are to be married."

"Married." Sansa repeated. She felt light headed. This outcome was far worse than any she could have imagined. _Married to Joffrey Lannister_. She would take death a thousand times before she would be called a Lannister. She tried to speak but choked on her words, her throat closing with fear and fury. 

But Joffrey had said she was to be married. _She not we_. "To whom?" Sansa felt exceedingly stupid for asking so but she needed to hear the words. _The words that will seal my fate_.

Her face had reddened, though to Tyrion the look was more than endearing. It had been two long years that she had been locked away in the Red Keep, a young girl transformed.

Sansa Stark was no longer as tall and lanky as a growing boy. Instead her curves were soft and slight and her features so endearing that Cersei Lannister was no longer called the most beautiful woman in King's Landing, only adding to her hatred of the Northern girl.

Sansa was dressed in rags, though the clothes no longer looked as if they might swallow her. Instead the gown Cersei had gifted three sizes too large clung to her hips and stomach in such a way as to make her seem far more womanly than Tyrion though a girl of six and ten would look.

Joffrey threw back his head in laughter. He was laughing so hard, in fact, that he was unable to speak and Tywin finished the sentence for him, looking quite exasperated. "Khal Drogo." he said sternly.

"I do not know this man, your grace." Said Sansa. Her face remained expressionless but her heart leapt into her throat. She had trained herself to be as cold as the Southerners assumed the Northern people were.

"He is a Dothraki horselord." said Joffrey. "He is like to tear you apart with his bare hands."

Septa Mordane and Old Nan had often told Sansa stories of the Dothraki. They were wild people, uncivilized and savage, everything Sansa had come to dislike. They killed men and raped woman as casually as one asks the weather and their horses were their most prized possessions.

Sansa was filled with fear and it felt as though she had been doused in cold water. _Perhaps it is a trick_ , thought she. It would not be Joffrey's first. "You are to cross the Narrow Sea." Tywin continued. "Before the moon turns you will be a woman married."

"That is if Khal Drogo likes you." added Cersei.

Her face was smug, her lips twisted in a smile and her eyes sparkling. In her hand she held a long, fluted wineglass, a permanent fixture as of late.

The wine had changed the Queen Regent. Not only had she become soft of mind but soft of skin, her once slim waist growing in size and her narrow hips growing larger and larger with each flagon of wine drank. 

"If he doesn't he will send you back to us in pieces." finished Joffrey and he and his mother shared a cold laugh, as if Cersei had just shared a funny jest.

 _I will not_ , thought Sansa. _Even if the Khal does not like me I will never return. I choose death. I choose death over a life on my knees._

Joffrey expected the girl to cower, to cry out in protest, to do anything that might clue him in to her fear or discontent but she did not.

Tyrion watched Sansa curiously, from his place besides his father,  a smile playing at his lips. Even burning hot with rage Sansa showed no signs of it. Her eyes remained even, her jaw unclenched. She even managed a small smile as she curtsied pleasantly.

"Yes, your grace." she said. "I am glad, your grace."

Tyrion broke into a grin. _She may survive us yet,_ thought he.

Joffrey slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. so loudly that Cersei jumped. "Glad?" he shouted. "Glad?" He could not find the words to describe his fury and instead stayed quiet, fuming and stewing in his anger.

Cersei looked angry as well, though she hid it far better than her son. She poured herself another glass and Sansa watched her throat bob up and down as she swallowed, a bead of red wine running from the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, your grace.” Said Sansa. “Glad.”

 _Glad to be rid of the Lannisters_.


	2. Essos

_Chapter Two_

_Tyrion Lannister_

Tyrion knocked quietly on the door to Sansa's apartments, Shae curtsying and stepping aside so he could enter the chamber. He bowed to the guards at the door and walked passed them, knowing soon enough their ears would be pressed to the door so they could report back to Cersei or Varys or Littlefinger or whoever else in the damn castle that was so interested in the goings on of Sansa.

Tyrion smiled at the handmaiden and grazed her hand with his lovingly. Sansa gave a small smile and continued brushing a comb through her copper hair, counting the strokes as her mother had once done. "Good morning, my lord." she greeted, looking back at him through the reflection of the silver mirror.

"No need for formality." said Tyrion. "We are all friends here." He took a seat beside her and Shae poured him a cup of wine from the half empty flagon on the table. "I came to tell you what my nephew did not."

"What do you mean?" 

"I am to accompany you across the Narrow Sea." he said, sipping his wine calmly.

Her eyes brightened and Tyrion felt his heart swell. He had always known Sansa had a soft spot for him but she was usually so distant he did not often see it. But when he did, he could see how young and kind she still was. "Truly?" she asked hopefully.

"Truly." he repeated. "A few others as well and I must admit they are not as charming as I am."

"Others?" asked Shae. Her hand rested upon his knee, his thumb tracing the soft skin of her hand absently.

"Your handmaiden for example, if it please her." said Tyrion with a smile. Shae grinned, turning happily to Sansa and taking over the task of hair brushing. He continued, "Sandor Clegane-"

"The Hound?" said Shae in exasperation. Her lips flattened and eyes narrowed. "Why him?"

"To make sure if the Khal does not...take to Sansa she is not hurt.” Sansa’s brows furrowed and, seeing the look upon her face, he quickly continued. “Petyr Baelish has also asked to join you."

"Why?" asked Sansa.  

"He said something of wishing to see Essos but truly I think it is because he wishes to see our Lady Sansa in Dothraki dress." Tyrion teased.

Sansa swirled the wine around in her cup. Her blue eyes watched the wine run down the rim of her glass and over her fingers, drying and making her skin sticky and shiny with sugar.

"What if he does not like me?" Sansa whispered. Her voice was cool but uneven.

Tyrion remained quiet. Even he could not bring himself to bring humor to his words. "I am not sure." said he. "He could do any number of things and a few of them...my dear they may not be kind. But Sandor will protect you. My sister may be willing to ship you away for her gain but if he will not marry you she still thinks she can use you."

She rolled her eyes. "She fancies herself as clever as Tywin Lannister, doesn't she?" muttered Sansa.

"Mind your words, lady." warned Shae. "There are spies all over."

Sansa nodded her hair and put down her brush, turning in her chair to face Tyrion. "When will we leave?" asked Sansa.

"We set sail tomorrow." said Tyrion. "The King will see you off."

 _It will be a happy day_ , thought Sansa.

Though in truth she was happy, happy to be free of Joffrey and Cersei and Tywin. Happy to be free of the bruises and heartache, cruel words and even crueler looks. She would be glad to not be stared at every time she entered a room, every time she walked through the gardens with Shae or Tyrion, every time she was called to stand before the King.

She would be free, if only just in a sense. Thought she was being sold like a slave or a piece of cattle she would be free of the Lannisters. She had dreamed of this day for as long as she could remember and until she reached Essos, she had nothing to be afraid of.

**********

The procession was far greater a production that Sansa would have predicted. Tommen Lannister was sandwiched between his mother and the High Septon, the man chanting loudly as he prayed to the Gods for Sansa's safe arrival.

Joffrey was holding in his laughter, shifting on the balls of his feet and grinning. "Sweet Sansa." he said. "It will be a pain to lose you." he lied, his voice spiking in volume as he wanted everyone to hear him. Sansa's eyebrow twitched but she remained otherwise expressionless. "Hopefully we will see each other again." he laughed harshly and lowered his voice: "hopefully you will survive the night."

 _Sweet words, cruel smile_. "Hopefully, my lord." said Sansa, forcing a smile and a curtsy.

"Yes, my little dove." said Cersei. She pulled Sansa in to a hug. Her body was warm and soft, far more fleshy than the first time she had hugged the Stark girl, just before the death of Sansa’s father. "But I think we will not see each other again." she whispered into Sansa's ear when she thought nobody to be listening.

Next it was Joffrey’s turn to hug the girl. “I would let the whole _Khalisar_ fuck you if need be, sweet Sansa. All forty thousand men, and their horses too if that is what it takes to stop this war.” Whispered the King into her ear.

His arms coiled tightly around her and she could smell the sourness of his breath, the warmth causing the hair on the back of her neck to raise.

The ship was readied to sail and after receiving a quick and tearful hug from Tommen and his kittens, Sansa crossed the path and boarded the ship.

Looking over her shoulder she smiled. The Queen Regent returned the gesture, thinking it was just another show of false courtesy, and even waved a white handkerchief in the air in goodbye.

But there was nothing forceful of Sansa's smile. For the first time, as she sailed far from King's Landing and put between her and Joffrey an ocean, she was actually happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey's quote was originally attributed to Viserys Tagaryen in "A Game of Thrones" by George R.R Martin and in the television episode "Winter Is Coming."


	3. Illyrio Mopatis

_Chapter Three_

_Sandor Clegane_

Sandor Clegane had never liked ships.

Ships were made of wood and wood was easily burned. Ships were cold and damp and filled with rats and filth. _Ships sank_. But this ship was far grander than any others he had ever been on, but not grandiose enough for the King, Joffrey having pawned off the ship for Sansa and Tyrion as an insult.

There was a cabin for each of the passengers: one for Sansa and her handmaiden, one for Tyrion and his squire, one for Petyr Baelish and all his books, and one for Sandor, the farthest down the hall, just beside Petyr’s.

Sansa Stark stood on the deck of the ship, her hands gripping the railing tightly. "What is it, little bird?" he asked gruffly. "Afraid of the sea?"

She looked up at him and his stomach tightened, his smile slipping. She was no longer the scared, little bird she had once been. She was a woman grown now, a woman bled, he had found that out firsthand.

The little bird was tall, as tall as Cersei Lannister and far taller than the King, but slim. As slim as Cersei had once been before she grew to like wine and sugared pies. Sandor no longer heard the city guard talking of wanting to fuck her. No, now they whispered about Sansa.

About the curve of her neck and the softness of her smile and the suppleness of her lips among their cocks. They moaned at the thought of her soft breasts and her pink nipples between their lips or under their palms. He had once struck a man for singing a song of the wetness and warmth of her cunt.

"No." said Sansa. "Not the ocean."

"Ships then?" he asked. His armor clinked as he moved and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. _Damn the South_ , he thought. _Damn the heat. Damn the Lannisters._

"Of the Khal." she answered. There was no pretense to her words, as there usually was. Perhaps she is no longer a little bird, singing her sweet songs. Perhaps she was a bird squashed beneath the foot of the Lannisters. He would not be surprised.

He shifted on the balls of his feet. "My lady-" he started.

"Sansa." she corrected. "Just Sansa." Her eyes stared out at the sea, watching as King’s Landing disappeared behind them. Her eyes watered, though from the harsh sting of salt, not from sadness, and a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"Sansa." repeated Sandor. The word felt foreign and fuzzy on his tongue. "You don't need to be afraid. They..." he trailed off, unable to find the right words to say.

"My Lady Sansa." said Petyr Baelish, interrupting their conversation and saving Sandor from his discomfort. "If you'll excuse us." he said pointedly and Sandor knew he was being dismissed, moving away, the only noise he made being the rustle of his armor.            

Over his shoulder he saw Sansa watching him as he walked away, Littlefinger standing far to close to her, as he usually did, his hand resting upon hers and he tried to “console” her.

Two weeks into their journey Sandor suffered a bout of seasickness that left him weak and shaking. He spent the days in his cabin, his head in his hands and his arms over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of the waves slapping against the side of the ship.

He had a small square window in his cabin and was thankful for it, often sticking his head out and spilling the contents of his stomach into the foam of waves.

The sun had set long ago but Sandor was still awake, his head in his hands. He hummed to himself a song he had often heard and it seemed to relieve his illness, if only for a moment.

"You should eat something." said a voice. Sansa stood in the doorway, a plate of food in one hand and a silver glass in the other. She moved across the room, sitting on the corner of his bed.

Sandor had removed his armor, clad in only a tunic and trousers, his boots tossed in a pile at the foot of his bed. He didn't respond but took the glass from Sansa. "It smells foul." he said, sniffing whatever mixture was in the glass. It was thick and dark, the color of mashed grass.

"It will settle your stomach." she said. "Drink it."

"Smells like shit." he muttered.

"Drink it." she repeated. Her voice was firm and he did as he was told.

He tasted grass and garlic and his teeth chewed up chunks of something spicy. He gagged several times, green slime running from the corners of his mouth. "What the hell is this?" he said once the glass was empty. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, green liquid appearing on his sleeve.

"Milk of the poppy, saffron, willow bark, and crushed fennel. Among other things." she said. She gave him a small smile. "You will sleep now. You need it." she said. "But first eat this."

"What is-"

"Eat it." she repeated. And he did. It tasted like nothing, absolutely nothing.

The next thing he remembered was waking up. His cloak was folded on the table beside his bed, a tear at the bottom of the hem sewn. He pulled on his boots one at a time and donned his armor. Besides a bit of longing fatigue Sandor felt as good as new, no sign of seasickness or motion sickness.

The captain promised him they would be only a few more days at sea and he descended the stairs to inform Sansa and Tyrion of the news. He entered her cabin when she bid him to do so, finding her still in her nightclothes, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulder like a wave.

She had bathed recently and the room smelled of perfume and flowers, her hair still wet and two shades darker than usual. "I just wanted to thank you." he said. "For..."

She spoke, "You were sick and I knew how to help."

"Well thank you anyway. And mind that hole in the wall, Littlefinger has been known to stare." he said gruffly.

She eyed the hole just above her bunk and frowned. Sandor had caught him watching once when Littlefinger had thought he had barred the door. Sansa had been changing, her handmaiden unlacing her corset when Sandor had interrupted. The man had jumped away from the hall, muttering something about sleep and how Sandor ought not barge in unannounced.

"Thank you." she said.

The day before they arrived in Pentos Sansa was given another bath.

Her hair was combed and brushed half a hundred times, loosely braided, the long plait falling to her lower back. Her face was lightly powdered, her cheeks pinched by her handmaiden until they were pink and she was dressed casually. Tyrion promised that the Magister of Pentos would dress her more finely when they arrived.

Departing the ship Sandor knew he would not miss it. He held his packs on his back and Sansa's trunk in his arms. It was not heavy and for a moment he felt sad. The little bird had few possessions. Most of them had been stolen or taken by Cersei or the King. Sandor felt sorry for the little bird. She had been caged.

 _But she is free now_. _As free as one can be surrounded by Dothraki screamers._

Pentos was beautiful to Sansa, the girl watching everything in awe, as they sat in a simple carriage. When she smiled it was not forced and her eyes sparkled, something Sandor had never before seen.

The trees were many, the grass soft as silk beneath his boots, brushing softly against his ankles. The skies were clear and blue, the sun beaming down upon them. Sansa was pink faced and sweating, her clothes too warm for this far South but she did not complain, only watched in awe as the carriage took her to the Magister's Palace.

 _Illyrio Mopatis. The Cheesmonger_ , thought Sandor. The Magister was fat, not nearly so as the High Septon, but fat enough to show he led an affluent life. He welcomed them with open arms, kissing Sansa on both cheeks. The girl was surprised but not rude, smiling and doing her curtsies like a proper lady.

"The Khalisar will arrive in the morning." said Illyrio as they reclined in the hall, sitting upon cushioned seats and eating grapes and figs and dates.

"Yes, your grace." Sansa echoed. Her voice was not so hollow and dethatched as it had been before King Joffrey.

"I have a few gifts for you." he continued.

With a clap of his hands Sansa was presented with three handspun dresses, two of the softest silk she had ever felt and one of lightweight cotton, so thin it was translucent. To match the dresses she was given jewels and golden rings, which she and her handmaiden fawned over later in the confines of their rooms.

The next day Sansa was roused early in the morning by Shae and three other handmaidens given to her by Illyrio.

Sansa was bathed in a large ivory tub fit for ten, the tub made or white and gray marble and soft against her skin. The water was filled with rose petals and mixed with sweet perfumes, their scents clinging to her skin as she rose from the tub, naked and dripping, until she was wrapped in a bathing robe.

Her long auburn hair was combed and run through with perfumes and other floral scents. She was dressed in the translucent gown, her breasts visible through the fabric, though her lack of underclothes did not seem to affect her at all. She had aged so much in so little time.

Sandor remembered when she had been stripped before the King, sobbing as she stood half naked before the court. But now...now she was calm. _Always calm always collected._ Even naked as on her name day she was calm. With every eye in the room on her she was calm.

Khal Drogo arrived in a flurry of horses. There were more than two hundred men, more than Sandor could count. Drogo was tall, taller than Sandor, taller than many men he had met. That was the first thing Sansa noticed.

Drogo’s shoulders were broad and his arms thick as tree trunks, his bare chest matted with dark, curling hair. His hair hung as long as Sansa's, braided and run through with oils and perfumes. Illyrio had told them that the Dothraki only cut their hair when they were defeated and Khal Drogo had never been defeated.

Drogo rode his horse to where Sansa stood, her hair red as flame, her dress thin as paper. She looked boldly back at him, her eyes blue as sapphire and curious. She did not seem afraid of the horselord. Instead she was interested.

Her eyes swept over him as his swept over hers, both taking in every inch of the other. She might as well have been naked as she was stared at by the Khal and his Khalisar. Littlefinger seemed to be in one of the Seven Heavens, his face red and his eyes wide as when he had first seen Sansa, descending the marble stairs in her thin dress.

Sandor could not look at her. he stared straight ahead, at Drogo, at the horses, at the sky. But he could not look at Sansa. She was too…beautiful. And he was too ugly. To look upon her would only make her uncomfortable, he knew it would even thought she did not say, so he did not burden her with her unfaltering politeness.

Drogo nodded his head once, his lips curling and he turned his horse around. "Does he not like her?" asked Tyrion, standing beside Illyrio. He sounded defensive, upset even, as if he was shocked that the Khal did not like her.

The wind blew Sansa’s hair around like flames in a hearth. Her dress clung to her, the pink of her nipples showing through and every curve she had developed prominently on display. Illyrio laughed, eyeing Sansa. "If he did not like her we would know." Said he.


	4. The Wedding of Sansa Stark

_Chapter Four_

_Sansa Stark_

The wedding began at dawn. Sansa’s handmaidens had woken her early, though Sansa had gotten little sleep. She had spent the night awake, lying on her back and listening to the sounds of Shae and the other handmaidens lightly sleeping in the bed beside hers. She had walked around the room for a time, stopping at the balcony to look out over where Khal Drogo and his Khalisar were camped.

She saw fires glowing in the distance and tents were set up. She could hear drums and singing and when she squinted she could see figured moving wildly. They are dancing, she realized and as the drum beat changed so did the dancers.

Khal Drogo had been the largest man she had ever seen. He was nearly a head taller than Sandor and far taller than she. She remembered when Jon Snow had been the tallest man she had ever met.

She wondered if she would be able to write him. Joffrey had never allowed her to write to her family. Never. Not since she wrote the letter to Robb begging him to surrender to the Lannisters in exchange for their father. She pushed the thought from her mind and turned back to Jon.

Sansa remembered saying goodbye to him as he rode away to the wall. He had been so scared, though he had said nothing. His eyes had been dark and clouded, his lips flat and frowning. She remembered the last hug she had given him. Her arms had encircled his neck, pulling his body flush against hers.

She had been so young, but even then she had known the truth. She had loved him then with all his glowering and messy hair and black clothes. She had loved him for years, since they were children and used to play knights and maidens with Robb.

She ached at the thought of them. Her brothers. Her best friends. She had never gotten along with Arya, she was too wild for her back then. But now…now she would have given her life just to see Arya one more time.

“Sansa.” A voice whispered.

She whipped around to see Tyrion. Quickly she wiped her tears away and curtsied to him, hoping the darkness of the night covered her flushed face. “Do not fret.” He said. He took her hand, the skin of his palm callused and rough from holding a quill of a knife. “Everything will be all right.”

She shook her head. “I know.” She whispered. “I was just thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime.” He teased and she gave a soft laugh. “Thinking of what?”

“Winterfell.” She said and her face hardened.

Tyrion squeezed her hand softly. “Never will I ever be able to repay you for what my family has done. But I am not one of them-“

She bent at the knee and hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting out another tear. _Just one_ , she thought. No more after that. “You are always kind to me.” she said. “And for that you have already repaid me.”

“Perhaps the Khal will allow you to write your brothers.” He said. His hand stroked her back softly and once again Sansa was reminded of her brothers.

“Perhaps.” She had said.

The sky was streaked with pink and yellow and red when Sansa was pulled from her bed. She was bathed once more in the white marble tub, the water hot enough to burn yet she only felt comfort.

Two dresses were presented to her, one of light green and one of lavender. The dress was fastened loosely at her neck and at her waist a golden belt was clipped, cinching the dress in such a way as to accentuate her curves.

Shae had pinched Sansa’s cheeks until they glowed pink and braided her hair intricately, the plait of her braid woven with flowers and sprayed with perfume.

As she descended the steps of Illyrio’s palace Tyrion thought that time had stopped. She looked so beautiful, as lovely as a woman in paintings Tyrion had studied. Her skin was blemish free, soft and white as porcelain and her fingers ran down the banister of the rail.

Tyrion heard a sharp intake of breathe and Littlefinger stood beside him, eyes bulging, jaw gone slack.

Sansa sat beside Khal Drogo, her legs crossed and her hands resting softly in her lap. Her eyes dragged to him every few moments, watching as he laughed or drank or spoke in a tongue she did not know.

As was customary Sansa was presented with three gifts: a whip, a bow, and an _arakh_ and as tradition stated she rejected the gifts, saying the traditional words Illyrio had taught her the gifts were presented to her new husband.

Drogo sat beside her in, smirking as he accepted the gifts, and her hand lightly brushed his. She jumped at their contact and his smile only widened.

Woman in yellow and red robes danced wildly. Their breasts bounced, their stomachs thin and flat, their faces unable to be seen behind their veils. They mated openly, Tyrion had always known that. The Dothraki believed shame to be a foreign concept and marriages were often consummated beneath the open sky. He wondered how Sansa would feel about that.

As a woman was about to be taken Sansa jumped to her feet in shock. Instinctively Sandor drew his sword, Khal Drogo eyeing him sharply. The man that had taken her was sliced from chest to cheek, his innards falling in the dirt and the man was kicked sideways. As he fell his braid was cut, the second man raising the loose hair above his head and loudly screaming.

Drogo smirked and the drums continued to beat louder and louder.

"A wedding without at least three deaths is seen as a dull affair." said Jorah Mormont, leaning over in his chair to speak to her.

The man traveled with the Khalisar and had been kind to Sansa from the beginning. He was older than Tyrion, though not by much and Tyrion realized with a start that his father was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Jorah bowed to the couple. "Jorah the Andal." Drogo said, his accented voice heavy with the words.

"Khal Drogo." greeted Jorah. He turned next to Sansa, giving her a stack of books. “A gift for the _Khaleesi_.” Sansa took the books from him with a small smile, commenting on how she loved books and what a wonderful gift it was.

Next was Illyrio’s turn to present a gift. To her he gave a small, square chest and when the top was opened, Sansa’s eyes widened. Inside were three dragon eggs, smooth and round as stone, with small ridges. Each was a different color and as Sansa lifted one in her hands she found they were heavy as stone. “Dragons eggs.” Said Jorah.

“They’re worth a fortune.” Commented Petyr Baelish. “She could sell them and run away.”

“They are lovely.” Said Sansa, over the sound of their voices.

As the day came to an end Sansa’s anxiety only grew. Shae had instructed her on what would happen come nightfall but the knowledge made her no less worried. “The Khal will take your maiden head.” Shae had said. “It will hurt but only for a moment. Then you will feel pleasure.” ‘

Sansa had flushed.

Jon had once kissed her, she remembered, but he had not touched her. _Not like the Khal would_. Jon’s hands had touched her hips and her back, pulling her closer to him but their had not been nude. Not even close. It had been one of a few kisses, though that one had been the best.

Sansa had snuck to Jon’s rooms two floors below hers. She had found him sleeping soundly below a heavy fur, his boots tossed aside and one of his legs hanging off the bed. As soon as the door had opened he had woken, confused at first, though less so when he realized it was her. He had moved aside in the bed to make space for her. She still remembered what it felt like, his hard body pressed against hers, her leg laid over his lip casually.

His lips had tasted like wine, even now she could remember the taste. She remembered the feel of the course hair on his chest between her fingers and the warmth of his tongue against hers. He had already began to grow a beard and she felt the scratch of stubble against her chin and lips, then her neck as his lips moved down them.

But they had gone no further. It was not acceptable for a Lady so she had stopped it. Even years later she wished they hadn’t.

As the Khal stood, holding out his hand for Sansa to follow she wondered what her life would be like if she and Jon had run away. It was his plan, for the two of them to run away. They could go South, far from the Lannisters or the Starks or the Baratheon’s. But neither of them could ever leave their families.

Sansa took the Khal’s hand, and with one last look at Tyrion and Shae, both standing beside her and watching sympathetically, she was pulled away.


	5. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading the books I was not very pleased with how the show portrayed Khal Drogo and Dany's bedding so here you are, my own version, a mix of the two.

_Chapter Five_

_Sansa Stark_

They had all watched her.

After Khal Drogo had risen and walked through the crowd Sansa was expected the follow. She walked slowly, the wind whipping her dress around her and her bare feet sinking into the warm sand, the small grains sticking between her toes.

The Khalisar had closed in around her as she followed Drogo, the Khal parting the crowd as he walked. She saw faces in the crowd, Tyrion and Shae looking sympathetic, Sandor watching her carefully, his expression stony, Petyr’s eyes soulful and sad.

Jorah had nodded his head to Sansa, his lips tight in a frown, as he moved through the crowd after her.

Khal Drogo was waiting to present Sansa with his gift. His hand gripped the reins of a horse, the filly as white as Northern snow, pure and unmarred, and watching Sansa through large blue eyes.

Drogo watched her, his dark gaze unfaltering. His eyes were dark and deep and hooded. She remembered once when Arya had spoken of the kind of man she wanted to marry, describing him as tall and dark and brooding. Jon had laughed and Robb had teased her. _But they are all gone now_.

“She is beautiful.” Said Sansa even though the Khal did not understand. “What is her name?”

“You are to name her, Khaleesi.” Said Illyrio.

Sansa looked at the horse, her fingers brushing her long mane. “Silver.” She said. it may have been childish but she found it fitting.

“Ride, my lady.” Said Jorah, urging her forward.

But she had not ridden since she left Winterfell and Silver was a far larger horse than any she had ever ridden. The white filly neighed and her large hooves left deep pockets in the desert sand.

 She felt a thousand eyes on her, watching her every move. A murmur went through the crowd, a few voices coming up loudly. Jorah looked at her, nodding his head firmly. “Take the reins and ride.”

Sansa did as she was told.

The leather of her saddle was stiff from lack of use and Sansa gripped the reins tightly, feeling the squish of the leather between her fingers. As she settled into her saddle she felt the horse between her legs to be powerful. _And fast_. Silver went faster than she had ever ridden before.

The landscape flew passed her as she rode, leaving behind the Khalisar and the host she had traveled with. _I could just keep riding_ , she thought. She could just ride and ride until she left them all behind.

The horse was a blur of white against the golden landscape and as Sansa returned she felt a great smile pulling at her lips. Even with the wind whipping against her and the sun beaming down on her she had felt free. For the first time since she and Arya and their father had left Winterfell, she felt truly free.

The wind had messed her braid, several strands of hair poking out in several directions and her dress was askew but Sansa did not care. The Khal was waiting for her when she returned, his large hands closing around her waist as he lifted her from the saddle.

“Khal,” she told him. “You have given me the wind.” He met her gaze, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He might not have understood her words, but her eyes did not lie.

All her fear had disappeared like fog that had been burned away by the sun. She even ate a few bites of food, her stomach having settled since the ride. She stared after her horse, watching the white mare eat a carrot from Tyrion’s hand and lick his fingers when she had finished.

 _Perhaps this will not be so bad_ , thought Sansa. Drogo had already showed her more kindness than the Lannister’s ever had. _Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps_.

As soon as the night fell it was time for the bedding. Sansa was immensely pleased the Dothraki did not follow the Westerosi bedding ceremony and instead of being carried and stripped by twenty men she was only led away by the Khal, his large hand gripping hers.

She was lifted by the Khal as easily as if she were made of feathers and as she was once more placed in the saddle she felt like a child’s doll, dressed and polished and lifted and once again she longed for Winterfell.

She gave Tyrion a small smile and Khal Drogo swung his leg over his horse, settling into the saddle and kicking his heels into the horses underbelly. Sansa pulled lightly back on her reins and her horse followed the Khal.

They stopped riding somewhere in the forest. As the Khal tied their horses reins to trees Sansa watched a stream just downhill, hearing the rush and babble of the water. It was beautiful, if not cold, specks of icy water jumping up and hitting her as she watched the sun descended in the sky.

Sansa was illuminated in golden light, the clouds pushing in front of the sun and allowing light to stream through.

She had not heard Drogo come to stand behind her and jumped when he brushed a tear from her cheek. “No.” he said. His voice was gruff and heavily accented, even such a common word deepened by his accent.

As he removed the golden belt around his hips it loudly clinked, falling in a heap in the grass. “Do you speak the common tongue?” Sansa asked.

“No.” said Khal Drogo.

She turned to look at him. The soft fabric he had wrapped around his arms brushed against her softly and she shivered despite the great warmth. “Is no the only word you know?” she asked.

His eyes were boring into hers. “No.” he repeated.

His fingers were rough and callused as they ran down her soft skin. He whispered something to her and though his words were in Dothraki the sound soothed her. His fingers traced down her side and back, the touch making her shiver.

Sansa knelt, Drogo sitting across from her, and he began to remove the bells and ribbons from his hair. Soon she began to help, Sansa’s fingers moving deftly through his dark hair and undoing the ties and knots that held them in place.

The task was tedious but she enjoyed it, her fingers running through his hair as she undid his braid. He watched her as she did her task, her thin fingers moving nimbly through his hair, smelling the oils and perfumes. Then he smiled and Sansa returned the smile until he pressed his lips to hers.

His lips were warm and soft, softer than she would have expected. His hand cupped her cheek, guiding her head closer to his and she felt his tongue brush against her bottom lip. She remembered Jon. She remembered the taste of his lips and the feel of his beard.

Drogo’s beard was far longer, the hair rough and course as it brushed Sansa’s chin and neck. She almost giggled, the hair tickling her lightly.

He began to undress her, his hands slowly moving to untie the knots Shae had fastened at her neck, and the dress began to slip. He was tender, not at all rushed or forceful, as Shae warned he might be. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving Sansa sitting before him naked as on her name day.

He did not touch her again, only sat staring. His eyes washed down her body and to her great surprise she did not feel uncomfortable. All her fear had left her body, leaving only calmness behind.

His hands moved to her breasts, his thumbs moving softly over her light pink nipples and Sansa shivered involuntarily, gooseflesh rising on her arms. He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheeks and the girl was shocked by how gentle he could be.

By looking at the Khal she had expected the bedding to be harsh and forceful and messy but as he looked at her, his fingers running through her long hair, his lips whispering soft words, she felt nothing but excitement.

“No?” said Drogo, his hand tracing circles on the bare skin of her shoulder.

Sansa’s hand dropped to the waistband of his trousers and a look of surprise crossed his face. Filled with exhilaration she dropped her hand even lower and said, “Yes.”


	6. The Taste of Fear

_Chapter Six_

_Catelyn Tully Stark_

Catelyn Stark remembered how she felt when she had received the news of her husband’s death. She remembered falling to her knees in the Godswood and screaming until she had no voice left. She remembered the scrapes and cuts she had received, banging her fists bloody on the table.

And Robb. She remembered Robb, ruining his sword as he slashed a tree in the woods. He had screamed so loud that he had left her ears ringing, falling into her arms, his body shaking with sadness and fury.

She remembered it clearly as she entered Robb’s tent. “What is it?” she asked. Robb stood, pushing his chair back. In his hands was a letter, the parchment crushed with the force of his hand. “What is it?” she demanded.

His eyes were sad. _Tully blue_ , she thought as she crossed the room to him. He ran a hand through his auburn hair, a sign she knew meant he had received unwelcomed news. “A letter from King’s Landing.” He said.

Catelyn wondered if she would ever know what it was like to be happy again. “Is it Sansa?” she cried. “Arya?” She felt a tear run down her cheek. “Are they…did they…”

He gave her a hard look. His jaw was taut as a bowstring, his eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at the letter. “Sansa has been married.” Robb continued.

Catelyn felt the air come out of her in a rush. “Married?” she repeated. Cersei would never allow a traitors daughter to marry her son. She could not imagine Sansa married to such a monster. “Married to whom?” she asked.

Robb unfurled the parchment and handed her the letter. “A Dothraki horselord.”

Catelyn wanted to scream again. She took the parchment from him, reading the cramped script over and over again until she could have had the words memorized. “How do we know this is true?” he said when she had finished reading.

“Why would they lie?” she asked. “There is already five Kings fighting for the throne, they did not need another. Tyrion says Khal Drogo was threatening to cross the narrow sea-“

“Tyrion is a Lannister.” Snapped Robb. “We cannot trust him.”

“He is the only reason we know what happened to her. Without this letter we would still be in the dark thinking she’s being held captive in the capital.” Said Catelyn. “He accompanied her to Essos.”

“We cannot trust him.” repeated her son. He turned to walk around the table, his sword slapping against his thigh with each step.

“We don’t have to trust him but we have to believe him.” Catelyn said. He ran his fingers through his hair again, rubbing his face with his hands.

His lips pressed together until they glowed white. “My sister was sold to a horse lord.” He said through gritted teeth. He took a breath, trying to steady his voice. “My blood. Blood of the North. Sold, like a slave. To a Dothraki screamer.” His hands turned to fists at his sides and he slammed them down upon the table, upturning a candlestick and an empty chalice.

“We have to get her back.” Said Catelyn.

“And Arya-“

“Arya is safer in King’s Landing that Sansa is in Essos. The Dothraki are savage people. They kill and rape and sack cities because they feel like it.” said Catelyn. “Bran and Rickon are…”

“Dead.” Said Robb. He sighed deeply. Even saying the words almost brought him to tears.

Catelyn felt another crack run through her heart. She wondered if it would ever heal. If ever one day she would wake up without fury in her belly and the taste of fear at the back of her throat. “Dead at the hands of Theon Greyjoy.” She seethed. “We never should have trusted him.”

“He was a green boy.” Said Robb. He sat back in his chair, his head in his hands. “We never could have known.”

Catelyn put a hand on his shoulder. Her son was no longer a boy. No the hardness beneath her fingers was pure muscle. He was a man now, a man grown. “Sansa and Arya are the only Starks left.” Said she.

“No mother.” Robb met her eyes evenly. “You forget Jon.”

Catelyn felt sick.


	7. The Wall

_Jon Snow_

Jon awoke easily, as he did each day, thought this morning was already different than the others. He awoke to the smell of wine as Samwell Tarly brought him his plate of eggs and black sausages and he swung his legs over the side of his bed, standing.

Sam looked guilty, his hands crossed over his chest and his bottom lip hanging low. “What is it?” Jon asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You’ve got a letter.” Said Samwell Tarly.

The floor sent jolts of cold fire through his bare feet and he thrust his boots on quickly, wrapping his furs around his broad shoulders. “From whom?” he said through a yawn.

“Robb Stark.” Said Sam and Jon snapped to attention, his chest tightening.

“What of him?” asked Jon, trying to keep his voice neutral though Sam saw his fear. Jon was filled with ice and fury, his mind racing as he contemplated what the letter could contain.

“He writes of your sister.” Continued Sam.

“Arya?” asked Jon. “Or Sansa?” Simply saying her name made him feel warm. He remembered the taste of her lips, syrupy sweet and soft as the petals of a flower. He often thought of the night she had visited his bed, often when he was alone in his rooms and the moon was high.

Sam did not speak for a long moment, his pink lips parting several times as he tried to find the words. “Just spit it out.” Said Jon. “Tell me already, the suspense will sooner kill me.”

“Your sister has been married to a Dothraki Khal.” He said.

Jon felt the air go out of him. Since his arrival at the Wall he had never felt so cold. “What?” he asked, collapsing back onto his bed.

Sam shuffled closer. “She was sold by the Lannisters.” Said he.

“Sold?” repeated Jon. He felt hot, the rage that swept over him leaving him shaking. “Sold.” He could only repeat the word, for a long time that was the only thing he could think of.

His sister. His Sansa stolen, taken from Winterfell and kept captive. He could not imagine the things that had been done to her. Just the thought made his lips press together so firmly together that they began to glow white.

“To which Khal.” Said Jon.

“My lord?” said Sam.

“To which Khal is my sister sold to.” He repeated.

His jaw was so tight it could have cut wood. The thought of Sansa given to another man, to a savage man. He thought of her skin, so pale and tender, left bruised and battered.

He felt sick, tasting fury in his mouth and his stomach rolled with rage and hunger. “Khal Drogo.” Said Sam.

“What do you know of him?” asked Jon. “Speak now and speak quick.”

“Son of Bharbo.” Recited Samwell from memory. “It is said he commands forty thousand men. He threatened war with the Lannisters so that is why they…that is why Sansa was married to him.”

Jon put his head in his hands. He felt hot with fury, his head pounding like a war drum. He felt a thousand thoughts running through his mind all at once.

“What are you going to do?” asked Sam.

“Nothing.” Said Jon. “I am Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He said. “There is nothing I can do.”

“So that’s it then?” asked Sam.

“No.” Jon continued, meeting Sam’s eyes. “There is nothing I can do, but that doesn’t mean there is nothing others cannot do.” he turned to his steward. “Tell Lord Stannis I request an audience with him.”


	8. Across The Narrow Sea

_Aegon VI Targaryen_

“I grow tired of riding.” Complained Aegon. He had often voiced his complaints, showing his aunt his callused hands or blistered feet, shrugging out of his tunic to show his sunburned skin and freckled shoulders. “When will we stop?”

“Soon.” Daenerys promised, as she always did.

Viserys and Jon Connington rode at the head of the party, his horse far ahead of theirs. _Be thankful we have horses_ , Dany had said. _Or we would be walking_. She gave him a small smile, her silver mare neighing and throwing back her head.

Aegon frowned. His hands clenched as he held the reins, the leather worn and soft from his constant riding. The saddle between his legs had been worn when he bought it but now it was another days ride from the leather snapping.

He hated his clothes. The silks and cotton dress they had bought in Pentos. Viserys told them they had to blend in, himself wearing red and yellow silks.

Aegon hated his hair. He missed his long white locks and the braids Daenerys often did when they stopped for the night, her nimble fingers brushing against his scalp as she moved. Instead he wore his hair dyed blue, his silver-gold locks gone.

He and Viserys had shared the dye, his uncle's hair so dark a blue that in some lights it looked black. Ahead of him Daenerys’ hair was also blue, though the shade was fading, the color almost as light as the summer sky. Viserys had hit her, the back of his hand striking her cheek and filling Aegon with fury. His uncle had said that Dany was going to get them caught, that they would be recognized, though Jon said light blue hair was not enough for them to be identified. 

But in Pentos they blended in.

Aegon had seen a man with bright pink hair and a woman with hair the color of the sky when the sun was low in the sky. He had seen a monkey trailed to juggle bottles to the tune of his master’s harp. He had seen two men musically climb so high on chairs that they had stood the same height as the Magister’s building.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” Aegon asked.

Daenerys gave him a sympathetic look. “Much longer.” She said, sneaking a look at the two men who headed their party. 

It had already been weeks since they had left Pentos, weeks since Aegon had a hot bath or a hot meal in his belly. Weeks since he had slept in a feather bed with his head resting upon a feather pillow. Weeks since he had been forced to say goodbye to Septa Lemore and Haldon Halfmaester.

They had promised Aegon they would meet again and at the time he had believed them, accepting one last warm hug from his Septa and one last firm handshake from Haldon, but as the sun grew hotter and the days longer he was not so sure.

“We will stop for the night.” Said Jon Connington when the sky had turned dark and the night cold.

Aegon pulled the furs from his packs, cursing the desert and wishing he were back in Pentos.

“Why can’t I marry you, Dany.” Aegon asked. He was curled in her arms, his head resting upon her soft breast. Her long hair tickled his face and he had laughed, wiggling closer to her in their cloth tent. The tent did nothing to keep out the cold but the fire did its job and Dany was always warm.

“You know why, Aegon.” She whispered. Her voice was soft as the wind.

“I don’t want to marry her.” Aegon protested, propping himself up on one elbow. He shivered, Dany pulling his furs tighter around him and buttoning his tunic as high as it went. Her fingers were soft, her lips eves softer as she pressed a kiss to his brow.

“We don’t always marry for love.” She said. “Rhaegar did not love Elia.” Aegon made a face, his mouth moving to mimic the words he knew she was about to say. “Not at first.” She said, raising a blue eyebrow. “But he did, eventually. Just as you will come to love Nymeria.”

“I don’t even know her.” he protested, pouting. He knew he must look childish, must look stupid. He knew Dany would never fall in love with him if he continued to act to immature. She was a woman grown, a beautiful woman. And he was young and thin and nothing like the man she would want to marry. “She could be ugly-“

“She is _not_ ugly.” Said Dany firmly. “She is beautiful. It is said her hair is as long and dark as the night. Her skin is golden and her eyes shaped like almonds. They say her lips are so soft that they are often mistaken for pillows.” She continued, Aegon returning to rest his head on the pillow beside hers. She dresses in flowing silks and jewels as large and round as your fist.”

Her description of Nymeria had stirred him, as he often was this time at night. Though usually Daenerys was so soundly asleep that she could not easily be woken by his movement at the other side of the makeshift bed. “What about you?” asked Aegon dreamily.

“What about me?” she whispered. Her voice was sleepy.

“Will you love Prince Oberyn?” he asked.

“It is my duty.” Said Daenerys Targaryen, something inside her hardening. “I will do my duty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving behind such wonderful and supportive comments, I really appreciate it.


	9. A Night To Be Remembered

_Chapter Nine_

_Cersei Lannister_

With a glass of wine in her hand and the summer breeze blowing gently through the open window Cersei was pleased. So much so that she was not even bothered by the sudden and unexpected appearance of Olenna Tyrell. “Your grace,” said the old woman.

Her hair was covered with a blue veil, roses sewn into her blue gown. The heels of her boots clicked as she crossed the room to where Cersei was sitting, doing her curtsies and waiting for her invitation.

“My lady.” Cersei replied, finishing the contents of her glass and allowing another to be poured. “Please sit.” The words were forced, her smile even more so but still the old witch sat.

“I wished to discuss the wedding arrangements.” Said Olenna.

“Yes, my son deserves the best.” Said Cersei.

“Indeed.” Agreed the Tyrell woman. “As does my granddaughter. Which is why we have much to discuss.”

Cersei looked at her over the rim of her glass, waving for the woman to continue. “Flowers,” said Olenna. “White roses.”

“No roses.” Said Cersei, grinning internally at her wickedness. “We agreed on lilies and daisies weeks ago.”

“The meal.” Olenna continued as if there had been no disturbance to her speech. “Thirty courses-“

“Fifty.” Cersei interrupted. “Fifty courses.”

“Why not just have seventy?” the Queen of Thorns laughed.

Cersei leaned forward in her chair, setting her chalice on the table. The wind blew the curtains harshly, the smell of fresh summer air filling the room. “Seventy.” She repeated. “Why that sounds delightful.” She said. “Why not seventy-seven?”

Olenna clucked her tongue but eventually agreed. “What of music?” she asked, scribbling at her parchment.

“We have many singers in King’s Landing.” Said Cersei.

“And many in Highgarden.” Olenna retorted. Cersei’s hand closed around her chalice, her strength enough to put a dent in the silver.

She rose to her feet. “Do what you will.” She said, trying to level her voice though she was red with rage. She hated the Tyrell’s’, all the Tyrell roses. _A stupid sigil_ , she thought. _A stupid sigil for a stupid house_.

The wedding was in less than a fortnight and there was little planning left to do yet Cersei had not had a moment free from Olenna Tyrell. As if sensing Cersei’s displeasure and preparing to use it for her advantage, Margaery appeared.

Cersei grimaced at the girl. _A rotten girl,_ she thought. _A rotten rose_. 

“Good morning.” said the girl. She wore a dress that seemed to be unfinished, gaping holes in the back and at her sides to show every curve the girl possessed. The collar of her dress was as low as seemed possible without showing her navel, Margaery’s half-exposed breasts soft and round and perfect.

“Good morning.” replied Cersei. “Excited for your wedding?” the words were hot as flame in her mouth and she was so filled with fury she thought she might faint.

“Of course.” Margaery replied. Her voice was pleasant enough, a kind lilt to it, though Cersei could see through her as if the girl was transparent.

“It will surely be a night to remember.” Said Cersei.

“Yes,” said a voice. Both women turned to find Joffrey at the top of the stairs, dressed in crimson and gold lions, the antler crown resting upon his head and a sword at his hip. He crossed the room to plant a kiss on Margaery’s cheek and Cersei forced herself to smile. “It will be.”


	10. Dothraki Sea

_Chapter Ten_

_Sansa Stark_

“Khaleesi!” cried Irri. The handmaiden walked beside Sansa’s horse, she and the other handmaidens animatedly speaking in Dothraki. On Sansa’s other side was Shae, the woman looking tired after their day of walking. And what a long day it had been.

Sansa had been woken before the sun had risen and was in the saddle before an hour had passed. They had been riding for hours and Sansa’s back was aching and her legs half asleep, hanging limply on either side of Silver’s belly. Her eyes drooped closed and her back was riddled with sores from sitting too long in her saddle.

She did not realize she had been slipping until she had fallen almost completely out of her saddle. Sansa was caught by Irri, Jhiqui, and Shae, her body limp as she crashed into their arms.

The _Khalasar_ came to a screeching halt, all eyes falling to Sansa. “My lady?” said Shae once Sansa had righted herself.

She wore traditional Dothraki garb, brown suede and leather, her boots mud splattered and dirty from riding. It was a welcome change from the heavy gowns she was so used to wearing and she began to understand why Arya enjoyed trousers so much.

“I’m fine.” Sansa assured, rubbing her eyes. “I just need to stop for a moment.”

She moved off into the tall grass of the Dothraki Sea, the brown grass tickling her arms as she walked. The air was clean, cleaner than any she had ever smelled in King’s Landing. Instead of smelling of piss and shit, the air smelled like pine and trees, and came alive with the sound of birds.

Sansa heard steps behind her and she whipped around to find Petyr Baelish standing at her flank. “You ought not stop the  _Khalasar_  so suddenly.” he said. His voice was pleasant but his eyes no where near so and his jaw was pressed together tightly. “Your Khal might be upset.”

“I am the Khaleesi as he is Khal.” Said Sansa. She no longer felt the need to be polite. She was no longer in King’s Landing, smothered by Cersei or Joffrey.

Sansa Stark looked at Petyr, wondering how much he had already written back to the Capital. She always knew there must be something suspicious about a man who wore a thick, dark tunic buttoned to the neck in this great heat. “I will not take orders from you.”

He took a step forward. “The little bird has gotten her wings back.” Said he with a dark eyebrow raised.

 _I am free_ , she thought. Sansa had never been allowed to be more than three feet from Joffrey’s side at any time in King’s Landing. She had just walked away from her husband, from her handmaidens, from her guards and nobody had raised a hand to her. Nobody had stripped her before the court and beat her.

When she turned back around she found Baelish had taken another step closer and was now flat against her. His hand gripped her wrist as she moved to push him away, his other hand holding her close to him, his warm hand flat against her bare lower back.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“It has been but a month and already the meek young thing I knew has disappeared.” He whispered. His lashes fluttered, his lips pulling into a wolfish smile. “I have grown to like this new Princess.”

His mouth pushed against hers, Sansa turning her hair away from him and his lips crashed against her cheek, his breath smelling of wine and bitters. His grip was so tight around her wrist that it was a surprise her arm had not been broken.

Suddenly there was a sharp crack and Sansa jumped, Petyr pulled away from her so suddenly that she gasped and so forcefully that her arm snapped forward with him. Over her shoulder she saw Rakharo, a whip held tightly in his hand, the other end wrapped so tightly around Petyr Baelish’s neck that his face began to turn purple.

“She’s not a princess, she’s a Khaleesi.” Said Jorah Mormont. The knight stood beside Rakharo, his lips pressed into a firm white line.

“Shall I kill him, Khaleesi?” asked the Bloodrider, adjusting the whip in his hand. From horseback he looked almost godly, his golden skin further illuminated by the bright sunlight.

“No.” said Sansa. Shae rushed to her side, her arms wrapping around Sansa’s sunburned shoulders. Irri and Jhiqui followed quickly after her, asking Sansa if she was okay, asking if she needed anything, asking if she was afraid. Sansa had picked up enough Dothraki to assure them she was fine, not even having to force a smile on her face.

“Do not kill him,” she replied in her best Dothraki. “Take his horse.” She said. “Make him walk.” She wondered how Cersei would react to the news that her spy had been treated as badly as Sansa once was.

When she returned to the Khalisar the news of what had happened had already became known. Khal Drogo rode to her side, looking a fearsome giant. He glared at Petyr, the muscles in his arms making themselves known.

His eyes were dark as night, murderous as he looked at Petyr. “Thank you, Jorah the Andal.” Said he, using the common tongue.

He and Sansa had often exchanged lessons of their mother tongues when they rode together or slept together. Drogo was far more receptive than Sansa would have originally thought, listening intently as she spoke and repeating her words back to her. “Are you well?” he asked Sansa, taking her hand.

“I am well.” She repeated in Dothraki. Her tongue rolled off the letters.

She was learning more and more as the days went by. Irri and Jhiqui had been teaching her the tongue as well. They often sat together in Sansa’s rooms, the women patient as Sansa stumbled over the letters, blushing hotly each time she made a mistake.

By the third week of their marriage Sansa had been able to greet her husband in his own language, asking if he was well. He had smiled greatly, his thumb stroking Sansa’s hand. “Jalan atthirar anni.” He had whispered. _Moon of my life_ , he said.

Sansa had returned his smile, pressing a kiss to his brow. His skin was warm and his hair fresh smelling after she had undid his braid, her fingers moving slowly to remove the bells that rang each time he moved his head. “Shekh ma shieraki anni.” She returned. _My sun and stars_.

She looked back at Petyr, standing at the back of the  _Khalasar_ like a slave. “I am well.” Sansa repeated and smiled.


	11. A Promise Between Brothers

_Chapter Eleven_

_Doran Martell_

Dorne was as far South as a man could go without crossing the Narrow Sea and the sun beat down so strongly that Oberyn Martell broke a sweat just crossing through the atrium and to the doors of the castle.

Oberyn's tunic was soaked with sweat, his boot splattered with mud from his afternoon ride as he crossed the threshold. He ate a blood orange, the juices running down his chin and fingers as his teeth bit into the soft fruit.

He tossed a pomegranate to Doran, collapsing back into a cushioned chair beside his brothers. “Tell me about her.” he said.

“About who, brother?” replied Doran. He sat as still as was possible, even the smallest of movements sending razor sharp pains through his legs.

His eyes were trained on the Water Gardens, watching the children playing in the water, their bodies bare and their faces free of shame. The Dornish King remembered how it felt to be a child in the water, his arm around Oberyn’s shoulders as he tried to dunk his brother’s head below the water. He had still laughed back then. He had still enjoyed life back then.

“About the girl.” Said Oberyn.

Doran sighed deeply, still not turning to look at his brother. “Daenerys Targaryen.” He corrected. “Not _girl_. What is there to tell?”

Oberyn cut the pomegranate in half for his brother, watching the red juice drip down Doran’s chin and staining his collar. “Tell me what she looks like. Tell me why I am being forced to marry her.” he said.

“Forced?” repeated Doran, spitting out a mouthful of seeds. “You are not being forced. I simply asked if you would be willing and you agreed.” He said. “This is not Essos, Daenerys is not being sold to you as a bedslave, you are to be husband and wife. She is a Targaryen.”

“The Targaryen’s are no longer powerful.” Said Oberyn.

“If I believed the Targaryen’s to be useless why would I join our houses?” asked Doran and Oberyn remained silent for a moment, watching a child run naked through the Water Gardens, laughing the whole time.

“The dragons may be dead but the Targaryen’s are not.” Doran said firmly. “Arianne is to marry Viserys, you are to marry Daenerys, and Nymeria will marry Aegon.” He said. 

“This I know.” Said Oberyn, finishing his orange. “But all I ask is why?” He leaned forward, taking his brother’s hand and forcing Doran to meet his eyes. “You are my brother and my King.” Said Oberyn. “I would marry a goat if you believed it would help our house but first I would know why. So again I ask , why?”

Doran turned to his brother, his jaw taut as a bowstring. “The Targaryen’s may not be _in power_ , but they are still powerful. In Essos and the Free Cities there are many who support them. They hang dragon banners and sing their songs, waiting, patiently waiting for the day when they will return.”

The Dornishman paused for a moment before continuing. “And when they do.” he said. “When they make themselves known the people will flock to their side. And when that happens I will be seen as just another Lord swearing fealty so that we will not be crushed under their force.

“But with Arianne, Nymeria, and you bound in marriage our houses will be joined. The people who support the Targaryen’s will also support us and vice versa. Hundreds of thousands.” He said, his eyes meeting Oberyn’s. “Hundreds of thousands of knights and soldiers and archers who will be a force to trifle with. The Lannister’s will not stand a chance.”

Oberyn smiled. “Doran.” He said, clapping his brother on the back. “You are as clever as ever.”

“Oberyn.” Doran said, spitting out another mouthful of pomegranate seeds. He wished he was a boy again, without worry or much more than how soon he could leave his mother’s arms and swim in the Water Gardens with his brother at his side and legs that did not leave him in constant pain.

Doran’s voice was low, his brows furrowed, and his tone far more serious than it had been only moment before. “I will not live forever.” He said, swallowing the lump in his throat. He lifted the blanket from his legs, showing his brother the massive swelling and bruised, tender flesh. Oberyn forced himself to not react, though his eyebrow twitched.

Doran continued, pretending he had not seen a flicker of fear cross Oberyn’s face. “The next ruler on the Iron Throne will be Viserys Targaryen.” He said. “With Arianne at his side. And should something…should something befall them than Daenerys and you will be next.” He said. “You are wise, my brother. Wise and clever as I.”

He reached over to take Oberyn’s hand, the movement causing him to grit his teeth as a jolt of pain ran through one of his legs. “You will need to advise them, tell them what is just and what is unjust. You will need to work as Hand of the King, whether official or not.” Doran said. “Promise me you will be at their side.”

Oberyn took his brother’s other hand tightly, squeezing until Doran’s fingers turned white. “I promise.” He said. “For you I would travel to the ends of the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea. Across Essos and the Free Cities. I would travel the great dessert of Asshai for you, Doran. This I promise.”

“This I promise.” Repeated Oberyn. Doran managed a smile, turning back to the Water Gardens.


	12. At The Heart Tree

_Chapter Eleven_

_Catelyn Tully Stark_

In the Godswood Catelyn refused to cry. Even as she touched her palm to the heart tree and felt tears prickling the backs of her eyes she refused. She had cried too much already, for Ned, for Bran, for Rickon, for Winterfell. _But now Sansa_.

Catelyn remembered when Sansa was young and she had brushed her hair. Sansa had looked so much like Catelyn when she was younger with her long auburn hair and her bright eyes, so blue they looked violet in some lights. The urge to cry became stronger as she remembered.

Each time Ned went away on business Sansa would run to the highest tower of Winterfell and watch and watch until his horse had disappeared over the farthest hill. Knowing this, Ned had always stopped and raised a hand as high as he could into the air, waving at Sansa. She would force Robb and Jon to hold her legs as she stood on the sill of the window, waving wildly.

And when he returned days, sometimes weeks, later Sansa would run down the stairs and jump into his arms. Then she would say, “Mother!” and expect Catelyn to do the same. And soon there had been three children climbing on Lord Eddard Stark like he was a tree and they were wild squirrels. And Ned had laughed and laughed until he had fallen down, Sansa and Robb and Jon crawling on top of him.

Catelyn cried. She could not help it any longer. Her heart was so full of sadness that she needed to cry in hopes of reaching catharsis.

She could not imagine her eldest daughter sold like she was a bedslave in the Free Cities. She cried harder and harder, the tears coming faster by the second. Catelyn held the bark of the heart tree beneath her nails as her hand turned into a fist, her fists coming down upon the tree over and over again.

“Oh Ned.” She sobbed. “Why?” Catelyn sobbed. “Why are the Gods so cruel? Why did they take you away from me? Why did they take Sansa away from me?”

All of her children were away from her. Arya in King’s Landing, Jon at the Wall, Robb at war, Bran and Rickon in one of the Seven heavens. And now Sansa…

She cried and cried and cried, the leaves of the heart tree rustling in the strong wind. Were the Gods trying to speak to her? Catelyn held in her tears for a moment, listening. Was Ned speaking to her? Trying to comfort her? Trying to tell her something that she just could not hear.

She remembered when she had first seen Sansa, her little face pink and swollen, her eyes the color of amethysts.

Catelyn hated herself for being so cruel to Jon. But she had to be. She had to be or they all would have known. She began to cry harder, tears of fury instead of sadness. “How could you leave me Ned?” she demanded, her fist coming down upon the trunk of the tree until her skin became raw, her blood running down the dry bark. “Why did you leave me with such a heavy burden?”

If the Lannisters knew. If they knew the truth her daughters would be in even more danger. Catelyn wondered if it was a blessing in disguise that Sansa was a world away from them. _Out of their reach_ , she thought. _That is a comfort at least_.

Catelyn ached for Jon Snow. _No_ , she thought. _Jon Stark_.

She remembered when he was a boy, his hair a mop of black curls and his cheeks as chubby as ever. She had hugged him often back then, when nobody had been able to tell him and Robb apart. But later when Robb’s hair had lightened and Jon’s had darkened there was no room for mistakes.

If any of the servants had known…

 _But how could they_ , she thought. _We were so careful. It was one secret that had never left Winterfell_.

“Ned.” She cried. She wondered if she would ever be as happy as she had been in Winterfell, surrounded by babies instead of enemies. She never could have guessed what lives they would be living today. “How could you leave me?” she demanded of the heart tree.

The leaves rustled again, as if the Gods were mocking her.

She remembered the drops Maester Luwin had given them, the three meeting in Ned’s solar when they were sure no one was around. Catelyn remembered Ned’s unsteady hand as he tried to measure out just two drops. _Two should be enough_ , Maester Luwin had said. _Perhaps three, but no more_.

It had been the first time they had done it but by the last Ned had become so attuned to it that he had not even blinked as Sansa moaned in her sleep, her eyes fluttering as she sensed a disturbance around her. But she had never woken, not once in all the years they had snuck into her chambers, careful not to disturb Arya.

Arya was always a light sleeper. _She’s a warrior_ , Ned had always said. _Warrior’s cannot sleep deeply. They sense danger_.

Catelyn had hated the door to their chambers, the wood old and creaking each time it was opened. Even now she could remember the sound and how she had been filled with cold fear as they thought they would be caught.

As Ned measured out the drops Catelyn had always looked down at Sansa, stroking her hair and touching her soft cheeks. She had been so small, so helpless, so innocent. But now…now Sansa was a woman grown, most likely a woman flowered, and a woman bedded. The thought made Catelyn begin to cry again.

 _The drops do not hurt_ , Luwin had sworn. _She will not feel them_. But each time Ned had dropped the liquid into each of Sansa’s eyes she had softly moaned, as if in pain. But she had never woken. _Not once in all the years_.

Catelyn wondered what Sansa must look like. She felt a hot tear run down her cheek and the thought that last time they had placed the drops had been their last. But the Lannisters had not noticed. _No_ , thought Catelyn. She would know if they had noticed. Sansa would most like be dead.

She sucked in a breath and rose from the bench, turning back to the camp she shared with Robb. Catelyn wiped her eyes with her sleeve and hoped her face was not too red, her eyes not too swollen or Robb would know she had been crying. But he always knew anyway. Somehow he always knew.

And each time he would take her in his arms and she would rest her hair against his muscular shoulder and for just one moment, she felt as if Ned was still with her.


	13. The Telling Flames

_Chapter Thirteen_

_Sansa Stark_

Shae had placed the eggs in the fire, thinking it to be a beautiful decoration. Sansa stared at the hearth, watching as the eggs glowing, their bodies warm and bright with fire. It was as if they had swallowed the fire.

Sansa had heard enough about dragons. The Targaryen’s and their dragons. She remembered the stories of Rhaenys and Visenya on the backs of their dragons flying through the night air like birds. She had often thought about them at King’s Landing, imagining what it would feel like to have her own dragons. To be able to fly, far, far away from King’s Landing. Far from the Lannisters.

She could have flown back to Winterfell. She could have saved her brothers from Theon Turncloak. With a dragon Sansa could have swallowed all the Lannisters. She could have burned Joffrey until he was nothing but ash that blew away in the wind.

Sansa stared into the fire as if expecting the eggs to speak to her, as if expecting them to burn into life at any moment.

But the Targaryen’s were dead and the dragons with them.

Sansa stood slowly and walked to the fire. The three eggs stood simply and silently, the fire crackling around them. Without another thought she reached towards them, her hands closing around the green egg until she could feel the warmth of the fire on her skin.

“Khaleesi!” cried Irri, running to Sansa. She grabbed the egg from her, screaming in pain and dropping it once more into the fire. The handmaiden cried in pain, taking Sansa’s hands. But while Irri’s palms were burned red as flame and indented with the marks from the egg Sansa’s were untouched. It was as if she had never held the egg.

Sansa took a step back, falling into her seat, Shae moving instantly to her side. “Khaleesi are you well?” asked Irri in Dothraki.

Sansa was quiet for a long moment, staring down at her hands. “I am well.” She said once Irri had repeated her question two more times and said she was going to call Drogo.

Shae looked at her strangely. “What is it?” asked Sansa, concerned.

“When did you last bleed?” asked Shae. Her brows were furrowed and her jaw went tight.

Irri gasped, whispering something to Jhiqui. “I…” she began. “I don’t remember.”

Irri’s hand cupped Sansa’s breast and Sansa’s face turned hot as the fire that burned in the hearth. She raised her shirt, looking down at her bare chest and stomach. “Khaleesi.” Said the handmaiden in shock. Her brown eyes were wide as saucers. “You have baby inside you.”


	14. The Wedding of Joffrey and Margaery Baratheon

_Chapter Fourteen_

_Margaery Tyrell_

The wedding feast took place in the throne room of the Red Keep. The hall was filled to the brim with people, every member of the court dressed in their finest robes and gowns. Singers entertained the crowd as the King and Queen prepared their arrival.

Seventy-seven dishes were planned for dinner. Olenna had told her granddaughter that that had been decided after a bidding war with the Queen Regent. “Cersei said thirty, I said fifty, and the next thing I knew it was up to seventy-seven.” The Queen of Thorns had laughed.

“Seventy-seven courses and the people of King’s Landing are starving.” Margaery had muttered but dare not speak her words before anyone but her grandmother.

Margaery’s dress was made of handspun silk, so soft that her skin sang as it rubbed against her. The train was long, real roses having been sewn into the fabric so with every step rose petals fell to mark her trial. Her hair was pinned atop her head in the Southern Fashion, covered lightly with a jeweled hairpiece.

The ceremony was over quickly. The Sept of Baelor had been ornately decorated and Margaery could see that Cersei and Olenna had fought over something else beside the courses. Half the sept had been decorated in roses, the other half in daises and their house colors clashed together, too much gold and too little blue.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.” Said the High Septon with a smile.

Joffrey and Margaery Baratheon had stood before the statues of the Mother and Father and said their words, their voices reverberating in the great hall. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

The High Septon had smiled and with a chaste kiss they became husband and wife.

At the feast dancers from the Summer Isles had been hired, the women more graceful than any Margaery had ever seen, their arms long and their bodies graceful as gazettes. Singers sang their ballads and played their harps, their songs going from “Maiden, Mother, and Crone” to “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.”

Once the bride even heard “The Rains of Castamere” and busied herself with the forty-third course, pushing the small purple potatoes around her plate and trying not to roll her eyes.

As the night went on and Joffrey became drunker and drunker it was not hard to see the resemblance between he and Robert Baratheon.

Joffrey had hired a group of dwarves to do a show mocking Stannis Baratheon and Eddard Stark and Margaery felt her stomach tighten. It was all she could do not to be sick and for the first time, though she missed her friend, she was glad Sansa was not here.

Joffrey laughed obnoxiously, Cersei also finding the show amusing. “It would have been better if my uncle was here.” Said Joffrey drunkenly. He swayed where he stood, planting a kiss on Margaery’s lips. He smelled of wine and tasted of it, his breath as foul as a chamber pot. “If only he wasn’t escorting the whore to her new husband.”

The crowd had laughed and Margaery faked a smile, speaking a bite of roasted boar with her fork and pretending it was Joffrey.

Joffrey stood once more, spilling his cup on the table and nearly dousing Margaery’s dress in red wine. “Look the pie!” he had screamed. The room applauded and Margaery got to her feet, her husband leaning against her to support himself. “I’ll cut it for you, my darling.” He slurred, stumbling down the stairs and drawing his sword.

“Be careful, my love!” called Margaery after him. The words felt heavy as lead as they left her mouth.

He pulled Widow’s Wail from its sheath and lifted it above his head, crying out something that could not be understood and sliced through the pie. As soon as he removed his sword a hundred doves came flying out and the crowd was once again filled with applause.

Olenna approached the table, greeting the husband and wife with hugs and kisses before turning to look at her granddaughter. “Your grace you are a lucky man, every man here would die to have Margaery on his arm.” She pronounced loudly and the room shouted its agreement.

Joffrey muttered something that sounded like “well she’s mine” before calling for more wine. Olenna was fussing with Margaery’s dress, fixing a few of the flowers that had become dethatched, straightening her hairpiece, wiping away a smudge of lipstick.

Then Joffrey began to cough and soon doubled over, his silver chalice crashing against the stone floor as his chair tipped backwards. His head cracked against the stone and Margaery threw herself down beside him, cradling his head in her lap as tears began to fall from her eyes.

 All at once the music faded and the air filled with screams. Olenna shouted for help, Joffrey beginning to shake and convulse, clawing at his throat with his ringed fingers. He was trying to speak but no words could come out and Margaery took his hands, whispering sweet things to him and trying not to enjoy too much the look in his eye.

Cersei pushed her aside, Margaery falling on her back with a sharp crack as she was pushed into a table. A tray of hot peppers came down upon her head, a piece of broken glass slicing the skin of her hand until she bled.

Joffrey’s eyes were wide and terrified, guards in golden cloaks coming from every corner, pushing through the crowd that was frantically tying to flee. The air was filled with shouting, knights shouting orders, Olenna shouting for the Maester, a few women in the crowd shouting prayers.

Cersei Lannister screamed as she cradled her son’s corpse, his face the color of her violet dress. She had thrown herself down in a puddle of wine, the silk of her dress ruined. Margaery sobbed in her grandmother’s arms, Olenna trying to turn her so that she could not see the gruesome scene.

They were surrounded by a half circle of knights, the men still shouting orders and demanding to know where the Maester was. “He choked on the pie!” shouted one of the knights.

Cersei hit him so hard that his iron helm tumbled off, landing with a crash on the floor. She pushed him backwards, the man falling backwards against another knight, the two gold cloaks falling heel over head. “He did not choke you fool!” she screamed, her face red and pale with sadness and fury. Her voice cracked as she tried to speak through sobs. “He was poisoned!”


	15. The Heart of A Stallion

_Chapter Fifteen_

_Sansa Stark_

Sansa had practiced by eating bowls of half-clotted horse blood and dried pieces of flesh to prepare her. She had listened to the stories of Irri and Jhiqui from when they had last seen the ceremony, asking them to prepare her. Sansa had starved herself for a full day and night.

But nothing could have prepared her for the taste of the stallion's heart.

As she stood upon the platform in the middle of the room Sansa saw a few familiar faces in the crowd. Shae stood at her side, the handmaiden’s brown eyes wide as she stared up at the Khaleesi. Tyrion stood a few feet away, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared up at her. His jaw had gone slack and he was too stunned to speak.

Sandor Clegane was at the door, looking half disgruntled, half amazed. He seemed to still be upset at having his sword taken. "No weapons are allowed in Vaes Dothrak." Ser Jorah had told him.

Sandor had stared blankly back at him. “No swords.” Repeated Jorah and after nearly an hour of protest and the Hound threatening to split Jorah's skull and drink from it, Sansa had convinced him to relinquish his sword.

"She has to eat the whole heart?" she heard Tyrion ask, leaning over to where Ser Jorah was standing. His voice was far away and barely able to be heard over the screams of the _Dosh Khaleen_.

Ser Jorah replied that if she does not it will be seen as a bad omen. "The child could be stillborn or deformed. Or female."

Standing before the _Dosh Khaleen_ and the High Priestess Sansa felt the eyes of a hundred men on her. The stallion heart weighed more than she could have imagined and measured over half the size of her head. She could hear the low beat of drums and the stomping of feet and as she took her first bite, the Priestess began to chant and shout.

In Sansa’s hands the heart oozed thick, black blood that ran down her front and pooled at her feet. She felt the tickle of blood as it ran down her arms and thick globs dropped from her chin, raining down upon her.

She chewed as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the taste of coppery blood or the bits of heart that were too hard to eat. When Drogo had first given her the heart it was steaming, raw and pink, and now the heat was only a faint whisper against her palms.

Drogo stood beside her, his eyes unblinking as he watched her. Sansa's stomach roiled, bubbling with sickness as she threatened to retch, the heart coming up her stomach and throat and pouring back into her mouth. But as Sansa swallowed and continued eating, her jaw set and aching

Drogo stood before her, his face unreadable but the hard look in his eyes had turned to pride.

Sansa was almost finished eating, only a small portion of the heart remaining and when Sansa took the last bite she fell to her knees, pressing her hand to her mouth so she would not retch. The _Dosh Khaleen_ went silent, the air static as Sansa struggled to her feet.

 When she stood the _Dosh Khaleen_ erupted in screams and chants. Drogo came forward, wrapping his arms around Sansa’s middle and lifting her into the air. The people, the crones, even the Khals and the bloodriders bowed before her.

The High Priestess spoke, her voice high and loud. "The prince is riding!" she proclaimed. Her voice was as high and ringing as a bell, covering all other sounds in the room. "A boy!" she shouted. "A strong boy!"

Her screams were met with more screams as all the _Dosh Khaleen_ rejoiced for Sansa and Drogo.

She began to speak in Dothraki, Tyrion leaning over once more to ask if Ser Jorah would be kind enough to translate. "Her son will be the Stallion that Mounts The World." Jorah Mormont said to Tyrion, his dark eyes watching the priestess evenly. He waited for her to finish before translating, "It is prophesized that he will be the Khal of all Khals. He will unite the Khalasar into one."

Sandor Clegane was silent, the side of his burned face turned away so it could not be seen. His fingers itched for his blade, not to use it, just to feel its weight against his thigh or the tempered steel scratching his palm.

"What is his name?" asked Drogo of Sansa. His eyes were full of lust and his voice deep and low.

Sansa looked down at him, her light eyes sweeping across the room. The beating of the drums had quickened, the sound sharp against the priestesses voice. "Eddard." The Khaleesi said finally.

"That is a Westerosi name, Khaleesi." said Ser Jorah. He had stepped to the front of the group, bowing before her.

"Eddard." Sansa repeated firmly and in the firelight her eyes flashed violet. Ser Jorah took a step back, floored with the power he had heard in her voice and the sharpness of her eyes.

"Eddard." said Khal Drogo, looking up at her. He pressed a kiss to her belly, still flat and soft, his arms around her middle as he lifted her even higher into the air.

"It was my father's name." said Sansa in Dothraki. She did not have to say another word yet somehow Drogo knew. His brows furrowed and he pressed another kiss to Sansa’s belly.

"Eddard." he repeated but there was no question to his voice. He turned to announce the name to the crowd and the room erupted with voices, Drogo spinning Sansa in his arms as the _Dosh Khaleen_ cheered and the drums quickened. "Eddard!" chanted Irri and Jhiqui, the handmaidens cleaning the blood from Sansa’s fingers and wiping clean her hair.

"Eddard!" echoed Shae and Tyrion and Ser Jorah. The three stood at her side thought Ser Jorah could not meet her eyes. Tyrion was watching the scene unblinkingly, his eyes moving back and forth across the room.

Their voices turned to chants until the whole of the room repeated their words. “Eddard!” they cried. “Eddard! Eddard! Eddard!”

Through the cheering and the beat of the drums a figure came through the flaps of the tent. Tyrion moved towards him and as their voices grew louder and louder until Sansa recognized the voice to belong to Petyr Baelish.

Sansa heard Petyr shout. “The whore of Westeros!” and her stomach tightened. Thought closed doors and drawn curtains Sansa had heard the words. She had heard the whispers and seen the looks she had been given, the ladies of court staring after her when she passed or looking at her behind their hands or fans.

“That is what they call her!” he shouted. He was drunk. Sansa could hear the heavy slur of his voice and smell the sourness of his breath. “The Whore of Westeros.” He repeated, swaggering up to her. “Just like her mother.”

Sansa struck him. She did not even realize what she had done until she heard the gasps of the Dosh Khaleen and saw Drogo raise his arm to stop Rakharo from stepping forward. “Do not dare speak her name.” said Sansa, speaking through gritted teeth.

Petyr pushed her. Sansa fell backward, landing on her side and clutching her stomach, hearing the gasps of her handmaidens.

Baelish was seized around the neck.

"Who is this man?" asked Khal Drogo. He jumped from his chair, fury like fire in his eyes.

"Petyr Baelish." said Tyrion, standing at Sansa's side.

"He wrote to King's Landing." said Sansa in uneven Dothraki. "He told the King I am carrying Eddard inside me." she said. Her lips flattened, her hands turning to fists at her sides. Drogo rested a large hand upon her knee to calm her.

“What did he call you?” Drogo asked. “What did he call you to make you so angry?”

“I do not know the word.” Replied Sansa.

She spoke briefly to Irri, the handmaiden stepping forward to translate. “The Khaleesi says that this man called her ‘the whore of Westeros,’” she colored hotly.

The Khal rose to his feet, his eyes hard as he spoke to Rakharo. With a jerk of his thumb Lord Baelish was on his knees, screaming in pain as his arm was broken by Rakharo and his head pushed down by the other two Bloodriders. "What are you doing?" he wanted to know. "Sansa!" he cried.

"Now it is Sansa and not the whore of Westeros.” Said Tyrion with a roll of his eyes. He watched the scene in silence, his hand on Shae’s, holding her back.

Sansa stood from her throne and beside her Drogo's eyes flashed. He undid the buckles of the belt at his waist and poured out the stew that had been cooking upon the fire, dropping the golden belt inside.

Baelish continued to scream and writhe, begging Sansa for kindness. "It was because of you that my father died." Said the Khaleesi, holding him by the chin and forcing him to meet her eyes. "It was because of you that my sister is most like dead, that my brother's are dead, that my mother and brother are at war."

The gold bubbled in the pot, melting as soon as it came in contact with the hot iron. "You betrayed us." Sansa said. "All of us." she said. "And for what? For the throne? For the crown?" Her voice trembled with rage.

Tyrion watched the scene before him without comment, seeing Ser Jorah moving to his side. He could tell the knight was aching for his sword, wishing to feel the iron at his hip. On his other side Sandor was moving through the crowd, thought his eyes were on Sansa instead of the Westerosi master of coin.

 Sansa's face was expressionless but her words cut sharp as a knife. The Khal had lifted the pot from the fire, the black cauldron steaming and bubbling.

"A crown for a cart King." Drogo said and with one last scream from Petyr Baelish the Khal turned over the pot and poured the molted gold over his head.


	16. The Dream

_Chapter Sixteen_

_Aegon VI Targaryen_

Aegon wondered what his life would be like if he had been born of another house. _Aegon Lannister_ , he thought _. Aegon Stark, Aegon Tully, Aegon Greyjoy. Aegon Anyone But Targaryen_.

Because he was a dragon he was cursed, forced to hide, forced to flee, forced to dye his hair the infernal blue color. He was forced to spend his nights in a tent, the only thing separating him from the heat or the cold was a thin strip of cloth.

His legs were sore and bruised, his arms aching, his back as tight as a bowstring. He wondered if he would ever be able to walk without limping again.

“Where is Dorne?” he asked Daenerys.

They were riding again, another long day trekking through the forest. “In Westeros.” She said. “As far South as you can get without crossing the Narrow Sea.”

“So why do we not cross the sea yet?” he asked.

“We will cross when we get to Lys.” Said Jon Connington. Aegon jumped, not having heard the man’s horse approach theirs. “It is safer there.” he said. “Nobody will recognize you. And from the port of Lys we will arrive in Dorne without securing passage on another ship.”

“Yes Lord Connington.” Said Aegon flatly. He grew tired of being spoken down too, tired of placating the man. But Ser Jon had known his father, they had been friends what felt a lifetime ago.

“It has been months.” Said Aegon. “Months of riding, months of sleeping on sand, and drinking dirty, hot water.”

“There cannot be much longer.” Said Dany.

That night while they slept Aegon awoke to the sound of muffled screaming. He jumped up, sitting straight up in his makeshift bed and fumbled for the sword Jon Connington had long ago given him. It was short and stubby, the blade scratched and dull from not being used. But it would fend off any enemy that had snuck in to his tent for long enough so that Daenerys may call Jon or Viserys.

The tent was empty, no villain or creature having snuck inside while Aegon and Daenerys slept. Instead his aunt was curled around her pillow, her head muffled by the furs and silks she had wrapped herself in. Aegon dropped a sword, pressing a hand to her shoulder.

She jumped awake instantly, gasping for air. Dany looked around the tent as if searching for something but she came up short, turning instead to Aegon. “What is it?” he asked, handing her the canteen of water he had been drinking for the last six days.

“A dream.” She said, swallowing two large gulps of stale water. “A terrible dream.”

“A dream of what?” asked Aegon. “Was it of Westeros?”

Dany often dreamed of Westeros and a Targaryen upon the throne. She had once confided in Aegon that she had not seen Viserys on the throne but another. When Aegon had asked who she had seen Dany could not answer. She had instead stated that she had not seen their face, only a flash of silken robes and a dragon sigil.

“No.” said Dany. She was still breathless, her milky bosom heaving. “I dreamed of a dragon.” She said. “A three headed dragon.”

Aegon pictured the crimson dragon sewn into Visery’s tunic. “Our sigil?” he asked.

“Yes.” She answered, pulling her knees to her chest and rested her chin upon them. Her powered blue hair blew in the wind, the girl licking her bottom lip nervously.

Dany recounted her dream in startling detail. It was as if she were reading from the pages of a book instead of recalling from memory. “A baby. He had our hair, our _natural_ hair. And the woman called him Aegon, holding him in her arms and singing a sweet song. ‘A song of ice and fire’ she said, that was his song.”

Dany paused for a moment, visibly shaken. “She looked at me as if she could truly see me. She smile and continued to sing, her voice sweet as ice milk.” She paused again, her shoulders shaking from the cold.

She wriggled back under the covers, pulling the furs to her chin. “Then what?” asked Aegon, clearly intrigued. He raised himself up on one elbow, watching her and waiting for her to continue.

Daenerys sighed, her head resting on his arm. “She said ‘there must be one more,” She looked as if she saw me standing just beyond and when she turned back around she held another baby. It was fair and soft, as all babies. But something was different. Its hair was dark. And the woman said. ‘A dragon has three heads.’”


	17. The Funeral

_Chapter Seventeen_

_Cersei Lannister_

The funeral of King Joffrey was held at the Great Sept of Baelor, half of King’s Landing attending the ceremony. The High Septon had dressed in his finest robes, woven gold and dripping in jewels, the ruby and emerald collar around his neck clinking against the buttons of his tunic. 

Joffrey was the most peaceful he had ever looked, his eyes softly closed and his mouth resting easily. He was not frowning, a look Cersei had not seen in months.

Joffrey Baratheon had been dressed and cleaned by the Silent Sisters. He wore a high crimson and gold tunic buttoned to his neck, his trousers sewn in a matching fabric, a long cape around his shoulders. Atop he wore gilded armor, the steel polished until it shone as brightly as a mirror.

Joffrey’s face was pale white, his lips glowing faintly blue. As soon as Cersei had seen him she began to cry even harder.

Tommen clutched her hand, his face pink and red with sadness as he looked upon his brother. “You must be strong.” Cersei had whispered to him as she did up the buttons of his tunic. “You must be strong for your brother.”

Tywin Lannister frowned deeply, taking Tommen by the hand and pulling him away from Cersei. “Stop crying.” He said, his voice sharp and forceful. “Tommen, stop crying. Now that your brother is dead, the crown will pass to you.” He said and Tommen sniffled.

The Queen Regent listened as her father lectured her only remaining son on what it takes to be a good King. Cersei stared at his body as if expecting Joffrey to jump up at any moment and say it was all a cruel trick. But as the High Septon continued to drone on the King did not rise.

“This is not the time nor place for this.” Said Cersei, her voice feeble.

Tywin gave her a sharp look and continued speaking, his hands digging into Tommen’s shoulders like a bird holding its prey. “Joffrey was neither a wise nor a good King.” Said Tywin and Cersei felt the breath go out of her.  “If he had been, he might still be alive.”

Tywin might as well have punched her in the stomach. “He was my son.” Said Cersei, tears streaming down her face in gallons.

“Whether he was your son makes no difference to whether he made a good King.” Replied Tywin. His voice was even, not a hint of sadness marring his expression. Cersei wondered if she was the only one mourning Joffrey. She looked again at Tommen, his face swollen and his eyes red and she stood corrected, thinking she and Tommen were the only ones truly mourning.

At the other side of the slab stood Margaery, Olenna, and Loras Tyrell. Cersei felt her stomach tighten with anger, wondering if she could force them from the Sept. If she could have her way all the Tyrell’s would be at the bottom of the sea. Margaery had her face buried in her grandmother’s lapel, her shoulders shaking as she loudly sobbed.

_It’s a show_ , thought Cersei. _It’s all a show. It was always a show_.

Even now the Tyrell girl was dressed like a harlot. Her gown was long and black but low cut, her breasts clearly visible. At her side Loras stood emotionlessly, his eyes looking anywhere but at Joffrey. Olenna dabbed at her dry eyes with a handkerchief, whispering soft, soothing words to her granddaughter.

As the ceremony came to a close and the people filed from the room only Cersei remained. She heard the doors creak as they opened and whipped around, expecting to shout at whoever had entered. Jaime crossed the room in a matter of seconds, his golden hand shining in the candlelight.

“I’m sorry Cersei.” He whispered, his good hand touching her shoulder. She turned in his arms, resting her head beside his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the scratch of his stubble.

“It was Tyrion.” Said Cersei.

“Cersei-“ Jaime began.

“No.” she half shouted. Her voice echoed loudly in the marble of the Sept. “No.” she lowered her voice. “It was Tyrion. This I know.”

“Cersei he is a world away.”

“Then he paid someone to do it.” she insisted. “His sellsword where is he?”

“Happily married.” Said Jaime. “To Lollys Stokeworth. Too far North to arrive at King’s Landing and then return within the night.”

Cersei turned on him. “Then he hired someone else.” She insisted. “Or maybe it was the Tyrell’s.”

“What would they gain from killing Joffrey?” Jaime Lannister asked his sister, stroking her arms softly. “It could have been Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon.”

She thought for a moment. When she spoke again her voice spiked with anger. “Tyrion did it.” she said. “I know Tyrion did it.” she turned away from him. “I should have smothered him when we were children. My daughter would still be with me. My son would still be alive.” Jaime kissed her cheek, his lips warm and soft, moving down her neck slowly.

Jaime’s hands pulled down her sleeves, his fingers undoing the golden belt at her waist until her gown parted like a robe and pooled at her feet. She was as beautiful as he remembered, her skin as soft as silk and creamy as milk. There was not a blemish on her.

His fingers moved down her neck to her chest, feeling the soft curve of her breast and the peak of her nipple beneath his palm. Soon his lips replaced his fingers and Cersei moaned in pleasure, her leg hooking around his waist.

He shimmied out of his trousers already willing, his cock hard as a rock in Cersei’s hand as she stroked him. “Some one could walk in.” whispered Cersei, lying back against the marble below their feet. “A Septon or a sister or…” she trailed off.

“So we better be quick.” Said Jaime, his hips thrusting harshly against hers and soon she matched his speed.

Above them Joffrey remained peaceful, his face blank. But Joffrey was not thought of, not by Tywin, the Hand of the King thinking how he was glad to be rid of his nephew, not by Jaime, even his father caring little about the boy, not by Arys Oakheart, the knight standing on the other side of the door, who thought the only good thing that could be said about Joffrey was that he was strong for his age, not even by his mother, Cersei too busy moaning in pleasure to think of her long dead son.  


	18. Dorne

_Chapter Eighteen_

_Oberyn Martell_

As soon as he received the news his entire body chemistry changed. Oberyn had not slept the night, his back aching and his legs cramped from his long afternoon ride, but as soon as he had stepped through the front gates of Sunspear and was handed the letter he felt his curiosity pique.

He saw the button of red ink meaning the letter was sent from King’s Landing and he frowned. Ripping through the crinkled parchment he felt his stomach tighten and his heart drop.

Oberyn read the cramped ink easily and turned to Tyene Sand, the girl walked to stand beside him. “What is it, father?” she asked, concerned. 

“King Joffrey is dead.” Said Oberyn Martell. He planted a firm kiss on each of his daughters cheeks, spinning her in his arms and grinning from ear to ear. The letter might as well have contained news that all the Lannisters were dead for the happiness it brought him.

Oberyn ran to meet his brother, finding Doran in his usual spot before the Water Gardens. He felt his happiness deflate upon seeing his brother’s face. The Lord of Dorne had gotten little sleep in the last few days, his eyes rimmed in red and his cheeks devoid of color. His lips were chapped and did not smile, even as he turned to speak to his brother.

“New from the capital.” Said Oberyn, passing the letter to him. He read the letter quickly, his hands tightening and crumpling the letter. “Are you not pleased?” asked Oberyn. “The King is dead.”

“Joffrey may be dead but the rest of the Lannisters are not. Like a weed you may kill one but they come back even stronger.” Said Doran.

“Myrcella should be Queen.” Said Arienne Martell, stepping from the shadows behind her father. She kissed his cheek softly, her tan hand brushing against his. “By right and by birth she is the rightful heir.”

“By right and by birth Stannis Baratheon is the rightful heir.” Said Doran. “The Lannisters care not for right and birth. Tommen will surely be crowned before the week is up.”

“How is Myrcella?” asked Oberyn.

He had last seen the girl she was swimming with Trystane and Quentyn and laughing more than he had ever seen her. The Dornish sun had turned her hair the color of gold and the apples of her cheeks soft red, though her skin remained as pale as her mother’s.

“She is well.” Said Arianne. “Any news from the Targaryen’s?”

Doran shushed her. “Keep your voice down.” He ordered. “You do not know what ears listen at my door.” Arianne bristled but said nothing. “No news.” He continued. “The last I heard they were leaving Pentos, set to arrive in Lys.”

“Excited to meet your husband?” teased Oberyn.

With a sly smile and a sway of her hips replied Arianne, “As you are to meet your wife.”


	19. A Cask of Arbor Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a slight play on Edgar Allen Poe's "A Cask of Amontillado."

_Chapter Nineteen_

_Tyrion Lannister_

Sansa’s belly had begun to round. It was hardly obvious, only noticeable when the wind blew and her robes flattened around her body. If Tyrion hadn’t known better he would have thought the girl had eaten a filling lunch and was bloated.

She rode beside him, her eyes red and tired, her hands shaking as she held the reins of Silver, leading the mare forward. “Why did you come?” she asked suddenly, so suddenly that Tyrion jumped.

“My lady?” he asked.

“Why did you come with me?” she repeated.

Sansa watched him, her light eyes searching. “Tywin was tasked to go.” Tyrion said after a moment. There was no use lying to the girl. “But I volunteered instead because if I went I knew he would not.”

“And for that I thank you.” She smiled at him and his heart fluttered in his throat. “I enjoy your company.”

“And I enjoy yours Khaleesi.” He said.

“You are one of my few friends.” She said, pulling back on the reins so their horses would fall into step together. “One day I will find a way to repay you for your kindness.”

He returned her smile. Sansa had never once looked at him how others had. In her eyes he was a man, a full man, a handsome man, a brave man. When she looked at him he felt a full man, a handsome man, a brave man. “Khaleesi you look tired.” Said the youngest Lannister.

“I did not sleep well.” Said Sansa. Her fingers traced shapes on her belly. “I had strange dreams.” But her eyes told Tyrion not to ask of what her dreams had contained.

Ser Jorah Mormont rode a few paces behind, his brown hair blowing lazily in the wind and his tunic unbuttoned, a puff of dark chest hair visible. Sansa wished above all she could unbutton her tunic, the summer heat hotter than any she had ever felt.

A few minutes later Sansa spoke again. “Tyrion?” she called. “Ser Jorah?”

“Yes, Khaleesi?” both men replied in unison. Ser Jorah urged his horse forward, riding at her other side.

Mormont watched her often, Tyrion noted. Perhaps it was her magnificence, the pureness of her beauty and the length of her legs, or perhaps it was the strangeness of her eyes, Tully blue, she had said, though they looked pure violet in the light.

“What do you know of the Targaryen’s?” asked Sansa. The Dothraki handmaidens that had been walking at her side shared a gasp, looking up at their lady in surprise.

“They are all dead, Khaleesi.” Said the woman Tyrion had come to learn was called Irri.

“Yes, Khaleesi.” Said Jhiqui. “It is known.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, he and Mormont exchanging a glance. “They ruled for nearly three hundred years.” Said Tyrion. “Until Robert’s Rebellion. The last Targaryen King was Aerys. _The Mad King_.” He quickly corrected himself.

“What of the three headed dragon?”

“The sigil?” asked Mormont. “It depicts Aegon, Rhaeneys, and Visenya. Why do you ask?”

She continued as if he had not spoken. “And what of Daenerys?”

Tyrion stared at her. “Daenerys Targaryen is a world away, Khaleesi.” He said. “You need not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid.” Said Sansa. Her red hair blew in the wind like fire, her skin as pale as cream. Shae had often asked him if he felt an attraction to the girl but he had lied, saying she was just another young girl to him.

But in truth each time she looked at him Tyrion felt his heart quicken and his throat tighten, his humor and wit going dry in his mouth. She was as pure as Northern snow, they had said so in King’s Landing. She was pure and infallible, a true Northern woman.

“She has a brother, Viserys.” Said Ser Jorah, Tyrion snapping to attention. “They are the only two Targaryen’s remaining.”

“Why so curious?” asked Tyrion but Sansa did not answer.

“My brothers had the lessons in history and the houses while my sister and I learned to sew and mend clothes.” she scoffed. “Such use that is.” Sansa gave a short laugh. “The next time there is a war I will ask if the Khal needs someone to advise them on singing or harp lessons.”

Tyrion and Jorah shared a laugh, the handmaiden’s looking a bit confused but laughing softly in time with them in hopes of pleasing their Khaleesi.

When they stopped later in the city Sansa was happy to take a break from riding, her legs aching and her arms sore from holding the reins. They walked through the city, Sansa and her three handmaidens, buying flowers from a street vendor, walking along the dirt covered streets.

Sansa bought sweet cakes for each of them, the vendor insisting they were free for the Khaleesi, thought she dropped three coins into his hand anyway. “Lemon cakes are my favorite,” Sansa grinned, eating the last bite of her cake and licking the sugar from her fingers. “But these are a close second.”

After eating three more cakes Sansa exclaimed in surprise, “I’ve never eaten so much in my life.”

“The baby makes you hungry, Khaleesi.” Said Irri, her fingers walking down Sansa’s stomach. Sansa flushed, her cheeks turning pink, but she said nothing.

A wineseller was calling his wares, spotting Sansa and offering her a sample. “A sample my lady?” he asked.

“Thank you, ser.” Sansa answered, taking the small glass from him.

The man looked taken aback. “To whom am I addressing?” he asked.

“Sansa of the House Stark.” Answered Shae proudly. “And Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.”

“Ah Khaleesi,” he said with a bow. Looking at the cup he scoffed, snatching it back from her. “This is Dornish swill. Certainly not worthy of you, Khaleesi.” He turned around, pulling a cask from the back of his cart. “This. Ah this is from the Arbor. Nectar of the Gods.” He said, kissing his fingers proudly. “This cask I will give you as a gift.”

Rakharo took the cask, his eyes sweeping down the brown barrel, finding the shape of blue grapes and a sign from the Arbor. “Stop.” Said Ser Jorah suddenly.

“Ser?” asked Sansa, turning to the knight.

“Open the wine.” said Ser Jorah. “You will taste it first.”

The wineseller looked appalled. “Sir this is too fine for me. It is a poor wineseller that drinks his own wares.” He laughed. “And the wine has not been allowed to breathe. What a shame to waste it.”

“You will taste it first.” Said Sansa. Her voice was firm and her eyes turned hard.

The wineseller was sweating, noted Tyrion, standing behind Ser Jorah. Sensing trouble he moved to stand beside Sansa. He did not know what help he would be, but should a fight break out he had proved quite good with a shield.

The wineseller lifted the cask, pulling a cup from the table. His eyes were dark and beady, flicking between Sansa and Ser Jorah. Even Sandor Clegane had stepped towards the group as if sensing a disturbance. _He is a dog_ , thought Tyrion. _Perhaps he smelled danger_.

As suddenly as Sansa could blink the wineseller had thrown the cask at Rakharo and turned to flee. In his hurry to leave the man pushed Sansa aside, the girl unbalanced by the weight of her belly and she fell backward. Luckily for both her and Tyrion, Sansa fell into his arms.

As the man tore down the street Rakharo tossed a bolo at his feet and his ankles were bound together with iron tipped rope. He fell forward, bashing his face against a heavy stone.

“Khaleesi!” cried Irri, running towards her.

“My lady are you all right?” said Shae, pulling her to her feet and dusting off her skirt.

“I’m fine.” Sansa said, insisting her wellbeing all the way back to the _Khalasar_.

The wineseller was taken to Khal Drogo’s tent and tied to a post, beaten and bloody, his cheek cut where it had hit the rock. “He will be tied to a saddle and forced to walk behind the Khalasar.” Said Ser Jorah to Sansa.

“And what then?” she asked, her brows deeply furrowed.

The knight shrugged. “I once saw a man last nine miles being dragged behind a horse.”


	20. At The Wall

_Chapter Twenty_

_Jon Snow_

The Lord Commander had always felt uneasy under the gaze of the Red Woman. Her dark eyes were searching, her gaze measured and calculated as she watched him. Jon wondered why she wore red. _Always red_ , he thought. _Never white or grey or black, as Stannis does, but red_.

Jon had been escorted to the Lords rooms by four guards, two of Stannis’  and two of Melisandre’s men. But the Lord Commander was used to it, having often been brought before Stannis. He had given up his sword, watching Longclaw be taken away by a bawdy handed knight.

“You wanted to meet with me?” asked Stannis Baratheon. He stood at the other end of the table, his eyes hard as stone and his tunic emblazoned with the burning heart of his house.

“Yes, my lord.” Said Jon. The words felt dry as ash in his mouth, the pleasure of the pleasantries escaping him.

Melisandre continued to watch him, her pale hand running a round ivory brush through her hair. In her eyes danced the reflections of the flames burning in the hearth. Jon had given up asking for an audience alone as Stannis was unlike to leave her side, even for a moment.

Jon swallowed hard. “I’ve received news from the capital.” Said Jon.

“And?” said Stannis, leaning forward on his knuckles. A map of Westeros had been set on the table, the corners weighed down with candlesticks and stacks of heavy books.

Melisandre’s eyes settled upon him. “My sister has been married to a Dothraki Khal.” Even as he said the words he felt their meaning tenfold. His stomach tightened, his hands turned to fists at his sides.

“A Khal?” asked Melisandre, setting her brush down on the table and standing from her seat. “That is strange news indeed.” She walked to his side, her thin fingers walking up his shoulder. “And have you heard further news from Sansa?”

The Lord Commander had given up asking how she seemed to know everything. “No.” said Jon. “I have heard nothing more of her.”

There was a heavy sigh and a groan. “And what does this have to do with me?” asked Stannis bluntly.

“You asked me when you first arrived at the Wall which side I stood with.” Said Jon Snow.

“And you said you stood with no man.” replied Stannis. His brows were furrowed and his jaw tight.

“I have changed my mind.” Said Jon.

Both Stannis and Melisandre’s eyebrows rose in unison. She turned to him in a swirl of red robes, her dark red eyebrows risen halfway into her hair. “And?” asked she expectantly.

Jon and Samwell Tarly had discussed the implications of his words. They had spent the last two nights with little sleep, instead endlessly discussing Stannis Baratheon and the Red Woman. “My lord I am not sure this is wise.” Sam had said.

“What choice do I have?” Jon asked. “They have my…they have Sansa.”

“And that is a terrible thing indeed.” Said Sam. “But this…Jon. If you do this you cannot turn back.”

Jon had turned to Sam. “This is what I must do.” he had said.

“And?” repeated Stannis Baratheon, watching Jon expectantly.

The Lord Commander stood, meeting his eyes without hesitation, without pretense. “I stand with you, King Stannis. The Night’s Watch stands with you.”


	21. In The Still Of The Night

_Chapter Twenty-One_

_Aegon VI Targaryen_

Daenerys’ face was marked, her cheek bruised purple and black in the shape of a hand after Viserys had struck her.

Viserys had rose uneasily, having received little sleep, and complained of sleeping on rocks and with sand in his mouth.

“Why can the Dornish not come to us?” said the eldest Targaryen. “They ask us to travel across the Narrow Sea so we can meet them but what are they to us?” he demanded of Jon Connington. “We are far more to them and they are to us.”

For the rest of the day he had complained. Complained of the stiffness of his saddle, complained of the limpness of the oats they had boiled and broken their fast upon, complained off the heat and of the uncomfortable nature of his tunic and boots.

Then Daenerys had ducked out of her tent. The dye had faded quickly from her hair, the silver shining brightly through. Viserys had taken one look at her, marched to where she stood, and backhanded her so hard she had fallen to the floor.

“Viserys!” cried Aegon. Without taking a moment to think of his actions Aegon had launched himself at Viserys, pulling his uncle to the ground in a fit of legs and blue hair. In one hand Aegon held a handful of Viserys’ blue hair, the other hand turning to a fist and punching down at every inch of skin he could manage.

Viserys had let out a feminine scream and struggled against his opponent, Aegon being pulled off of his uncle by Jon.

Viserys had screamed loud enough to make a mountain tremble, trying to grab Aegon around the neck and squeeze but Jon would not let him. “That’s enough!” called Jon Connington. “Stop it the lot of you.” He said. “You act like bloody children. Half of Lys knows we are here now.”

“Don’t touch her again.” shouted Aegon. “Don’t you ever touch her again!”

Jon turned to Viserys again. “You won’t touch her again.” he said firmly.

“Or what?” taunted Viserys, drawing his sword.

With one strike Jon knocked the weak blade from Viserys hand. “Or I won’t just be knocking your sword hand next time.” He said and Viserys said nothing more.

Daenerys Targaryen looked on the verge of death. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her eyes fluttering, and her face as pale as the once white gown she wore. “Dany.” Said Aegon, his horse falling into step beside hers. “Are you unwell?”

She did not answer, her lips parting but no sound coming out. Three days later she was no better, her brother joining her in her state of illness. Viserys could not stand let alone ride. His face had been so badly burnt by the sun that it had begun to feel, as red as a ripe tomato.

In Lys they stopped at an inn, paying what little silver they had left for a room. Dany and Viserys were confined to their beds, Aegon sleeping on a mat between the two beds and Jon Connington leaving them alone, sitting in the tavern and gathering information.

The women of Lys were some of the most beautiful Aegon had ever seen. He thought they would have blended in just fine, most of the Lysene people having white blonde hair and light colored eyes.

Aegon was allowed to walk around for a few hours with Jon Connington, the pair occupying numerous inns and taverns in hopes of finding new information. They drank red Lysene wine and dined on sweet pastries and sausages, Aegon's belly so full he feared it would burst.

When Aegon returned to the inn Dany was fast asleep and Viserys was nowhere to be found, Jon saying he would return upstairs within the hour. It was only when he heard shouting that Aegon found his uncle again.

On the streets of Lys Aegon and a still weak Dany found Viserys with a sword in his hand and a grimace on his face, encircled by three Lysene man, all leering and shouting degrading things at the blue haired man. Aegon moved to the balcony in fear and awe, Dany at his side, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him to her.

Viserys was bleeding from a cut on his upper arm and another on his leg, the wound having severed the cloth of his pants until the leg was completely torn from thigh to ankle and hung off almost comically.

The eldest Targaryen let out another scream as a knife pierced his shoulder, his left arm falling completely limp, the sword tumbling from his fingers and landing with a clank on the stone beneath his feet. “Dany help me!” he cried, looking up at them.

In the moonlight his blue hair was so dark it was almost black, thought even in the darkness Aegon could see his violet eyes were wide and scared.

Daenerys Stormborn looked down at him, her violet eyes hard as stone and bright as steel but she did not speak. “Aegon close the doors.” She said softly, giving her brother one last look before turning on her heel and walking back to her feather bed and her bowl of lemon stew. 

“Aegon!” cried Viserys, turning to his nephew as the men continued to circle him, one man jabbing at him with a broken bottle. “Aegon help me. _Please_ Aegon. I’m sorry!”

Aegon watched as another blade pierced his pale skin, this time on the side of his neck, blood spurting from the wound and dripping down his shirtfront. “Aegon!” cried Viserys, crying to close the wound with his hand to no avail.

Aegon remembered the times Viserys had struck him, leaving an imprint from his knuckles or his palm on the side of his face or on his bare back. He remembered how cruel his uncle had been to Dany, beating her until she was bloody and unable to move, or threatening her and screaming that she had woken the dragon.

With a face as expressionless as Dany’s Aegon slid closed the doors of the balcony, listening to the sounds of swords clashing and Viserys' bloodcurdling screams and then silence.


	22. The Maegi

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

_Sansa Stark_

Khal Drogo entered the tent and crossed the room to where Sansa was sitting, passing the wineseller on the way. The man flinched, his eyes only rising to the middle of Drogo’s broad chest. He had been stripped naked and tied to a pole, his eyes red from lack of sleep and his belly rumbling loudly from hunger.

Drogo’s face was set in a deliberate way, his hand outstretched as he waited for Sansa to take it. “Jalan atthirar anni.” He whispered, pulling Sansa into his warm embrace.

Sansa smiled into his side, her arms encircling his middle. His skin was warm as fire against the side of her face, her arms pulling tighter around him. “Shekh ma shieraki anni.” She returned.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, sending another crippling glance at the wineseller. Rakharo and Kovarro stood behind him, pointedly sharpening their arakhs with black whetstones, the sound reverberating in the ears of the wineseller.

“I am well.” Sansa replied. Her Dothraki was improving by the day, Irri teaching her well.

“Jorah the Andal.” He said, cupping Sansa’s cheeks and pressing a soft kiss to her brow. “Choose any horse you wish. I make this gift to you for what you did.” He continued in Dothraki, “And to my son, the stallion who will mount the world, I will also pledge a gift.”

He turned to the rest of the _Khalasar_ , opening his arms wide and banging a fist against his chest. “And to my son, the stallion who will mount the world I also pledge a gift. To Eddard, I will give the iron chair that his mother’s enemies sit upon. I, Drogo, will do this!”

The room cheered. “I will take my Khalasar west to where the world ends and ride wooden horses across the black salt sea as no Khal has done before.” Drogo’s voice rose with the power of his voice.

He took Sansa’s hand and raised it proudly, listening to the screams of the _Khalasar_ in response to his words. “I will kill the men in iron suits and tear down their stone houses. This I vow, Drogo, son of Bharbo. I swear before the mother of mountains as the stars look down in witness.”

Drogo kissed Sansa proudly, one hand on the roundness that had become her belly and the other holding her hand, small in comparison to his massive one.

**************

It had barely been a fortnight when they reached a small village in Lhazar, the Dothraki raiding the town and taking hostage hundreds of men and women, planning to sell them as slaves and buy ships with the gold. Sansa was surprised she could stomach the violence, watching Drogo’s bloodriders cutting down men as easily as she had seen her father and brothers chopping wood.

Tyrion stood beside her, dressed in golden plait and armor, a shield fastened to his arm. On Sansa’s other side was Ser Jorah and Sandor Clegane, the two tasked with protecting the Khaleesi should trouble arise.

“You must not cry.” Shae whispered, her hand holding Sansa’s tightly. “This is the way of war.”

“I am not crying.” Said Sansa. She watched the gore with iron in her eyes and fire in her soul. She remained expressionless, her jaw tight as a bowstring as she stood.

Mago, one of the Dothraki men had a woman by the hair, pulling her down to the sand and beginning to rip open the laces of her tunic. “Stop him!” Sansa screamed, pushing through the crowd towards the pair. “Ser Jorah stop him now!”

“This is the way of war.” The knight protested.

Her face was hard as stone. “Stop him.” she replied firmly.

With a few words and a snap of his fingers Ser Jorah and Rakharo pulled the man away from the woman. He protested, drawing his arakh and Rakharo smirked, swinging his sword arm and gesturing for the man to step forward.

"I did not ask you woman." Mago snapped. "You do not command me."

Drogo had come to stand behind Sansa and took a step forward, his hand falling to the knife at his belt. "I am your Khaleesi." said Sansa firmly. Her voice was loud and resonating, far stronger than Tyrion had ever heard. He watched in intrigue, his light eyes moving back and forth between Sansa and Drogo. "I do command you."

Drogo smirked. “My son. He fills her with his fire.” he said.

Without a second thought Mago took another step forward, pushing Sansa backwards forcefully. "Witch." said he, spitting at Sansa's booted feet as she struggled to regain her footing. Her belly tipped her off balance and she nearly fell again, catching herself at the last moment.

Drogo threw himself forward, pulling the knives from his belt and brandishing them. As he walked closer the rider lifted his arakh, the curve of the sword pressing into the tan skin on his chest.

But Drogo did not even blink at the wound, blood running down his torso. "She is your Khaleesi." he said firmly, wiping away the blood that trickled down his chest.

“She is a Westerosi witch.” Mago said harshly. Sansa heard the Khalasar gasp in unison and Drogo’s eyes turned to fire, a knife suddenly appearing in his hand.

“She is your Khaleesi." Drogo repeated, stepping forward. He dropped the knives in his hands, the two men circling each other, their boots bringing up large puffs of dirt.

Ser Jorah pulled Sansa back, Tyrion watching in awe of the fight. He stood beside a pile of heads that had been stacked beside Drogo’s chair and the smell made Tyrion’s eyes water and the hairs on the inside of his nose curl.

As fast as a bolt of lightning strikes from the sky Drogo’s hand had closed around Mago’s tongue. There was a loud scream and then silence and Sansa realized the thing she had initially mistaken for a flopping fish in Drogo’s hand was actually Mago’s tongue.

The Khal presented the tongue to Sansa and she smiled, watching Mago’s body be kicked aside and his braid cut off by Rakharo and tossed to Drogo. “Khaleesi.” Drogo said, kissing the top of her head.

“My sun and stars.” Sansa said, running to her husband. “You are hurt.”

“It is the bite of a fly.” He dismissed.

The woman Mago had mounted stepped forward, Rakharo raising his arakh to stop her. “I am Miri Maz Duur.” She introduced. Her hair was dark and long but tangled, as if it had never before met a brush. “I was Godswife to the city.”

“ _Maegi_.” Spat Rakharo.

She took another step forward but Sansa raised a hand to stop her. "Come no closer." Said the Khaleesi and the old woman froze, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"His wounds will fester." Miri Maz Duur insisted. Rakharo further raised his _arakh_ and she stopped once more, her eyes wide and uncertain. "He will die."

Rakharo looked at Sansa. Tyrion and Shae exchanged a look and Sandor scoffed. “I’ve seen wounds worse than that.” Sandor said derisively, Drogo nodding in his direction. “He’ll be fine.”

“His wounds _will_ fester.” She repeated.

"No." said Sansa. "You will die if you come any closer." Drogo smirked again and dropped his hand to Sansa’s knee, his fingers stroking her bare skin lightly. "The Khal will not die from a flesh wound. It does not need to be bled, as you say,” she gave a pointed roll of her eyes. “And wrapping the wound will only make it worse."

"What should we do with this witch?" asked Rakharo.

The Khaleesi waved her hand. "Put her with the others." said Sansa. "No harm is to come to her but she is not to speak to the Khal again."


	23. The Coronation

_Chapter Twenty-Three_

_Cersei Lannister_

Tommen Baratheon's coronation was simple, easy, and uninhibited by more than his family, the High Septon, and a few others. _Overall_ , Cersei thought _, it is everything Joffrey's coronation was not_.

She held her son’s hand, his skin soft as butter, free of calluses and hard skin, as he was dressing. Tommen wore crimson and red, the golden antler crown balanced upon his blonde head. Cersei stroked his golden head, her son looking up at her happily. _He is still young_ , she thought, _he still thinks I can do no wrong_.

The High Septon said his words, the old man dressed more finely than the future King of Westeros, in draped gold and wispy silks, a golden broach the size of Cersei's hand pinned to his tunic. Tommen turned to the small crowd, a weak smile at his lips and his cheeks turned pink under the gaze of his grandfather. He turned to face the Iron Throne, his growing even paler at the sight of it.

With a look over his shoulder at his mother she waved a hand, urging him forward. Stony-faced he sat in the throne, his crimson cloak laid over his shoulders and the gold of his crown shining in the light.

"He sits as comfortably in the throne as if he was born to it." said Margaery Tyrell, the woman appearing at Cersei's side. The Queen Regent did not respond, still greatly annoyed at the presence of any of the Tyrell’s, let alone Margaery.

To her luck she did not have to speak as Tywin's reverberating voice filled the silence of the hall. "To King Tommen." said Tywin once they had been served at their dining table, lifting a golden chalice. "Long live the King of Westeros."

"Long live the King of Westeros!" echoed the room, ten golden cups raised in the air. Tommen smiled shyly and sipped his drink, his nose crinkling at the bitterness of the wine. With one look at her son Cersei switched his cup for a chalice of spiced cider, much to Tommen's appreciation and Tywin’s annoyance.

Much to Cersei's annoyance the Tyrell’s occupied the table, Margaery seated on Tommen's other side. "The wedding will be a fortnight from today." said Tywin, whispering into his daughter’s ear.

Cersei felt her face grow warm from anger. "Do not speak to me of such things." she muttered, downing her second glass of wine.

Tywin ignored her. "By then the mourning period for Joffrey will be over." he said.

Cersei glared at him but did not speak. How dare he speak of Joffrey in such a way, as if the boy, as if _her son_ , was so long gone. The moon had not even turned and yet Joffrey was forgotten, spoken of as if he were a distant memory.

She looked at Margaery over the rim of her glass. The brown haired girl was laughing, that was no surprise, her eyes twinkling as she and Tommen shared a joke that the King found exceedingly amusing.

Cersei burned with hatred. The thought of Margaery married to one of her sons, let alone two was more than she could bear.

Approaching Margaery Tyrell after the meal had concluded Cersei forced a smile, casually looping her arm through the girl's. They continued to walk; both women smiling softly, though their smiles held little humor or joy.

"Joffrey was not a kind boy." Said Cersei. Her words surprised Margaery, her brown eyebrows rising. "He would not have been a kind husband." She looked at the girl. "Do you miss him?” she asked suddenly.

"Of course." Margaery replied without hesitation. "He was to be my husband-"

Ignoring the obvious lie Cersei continued. "He would have been your nightmare." Interrupted she, giving a terse laugh. "Do you think I am easily shocked?" Thinking her question to be rhetorical Margaery did not answer. "The things he did shocked me."

They did not speak for a few moments until the Queen Regent broke the silence. "Do you still want to be Queen?" asked Cersei as the pair continued to walk through the hall. Tommen spotted them, grinned, and waved, both Cersei and Margaery returning his smile.

"I have not thought of it." said Margaery, dismissively. "There is much more filling my mind than an iron chair and a crown."

Cersei resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "Tommen will need someone to guide him." she said. "You will need to be that woman." Cersei quirked a blonde eyebrow, her smile false as fool’s gold. "You will do well as Queen. You have proven yourself to be kind and just. The people love you, Tommen surely will too."

"I am sure Tommen and I will grow to love each other as you and Loras shall." Margaery said cheerfully. Cersei could not speak for a moment, so filled with rage she felt the urge to grab Margaery's hair and pull until there was nothing left. "I don't know what I should call you." said Margaery with a grin. "Mother or sister."

Cersei stopped walking, giving Margaery her sweetest smile. She stroked the girl’s hand. "If you ever call me sister again I will have you strangled in your sleep." said Cersei and turned on her heel.


	24. Ser Pounce

_Chapter Twenty-Four_

_Tommen Baratheon_

Tommen was fast asleep, his head resting upon his ostrich feather pillow. His day had been long and taxing. From the coronation to his family supper and his afternoon hunt as soon as the King had lain upon his featherbed he had been quick to fall asleep.  

His door creaked as it opened, Tommen had always hated that. Every time a servant entered to add a log to the fire or when the goldcloaks entered to check upon the boy he awoke, the creaking of the door loud enough to rouse him.

He heard the familiar creak of the door and lifted his head, his heart jumping into his throat as he saw a dark figure crossing the room. Tommen had heard the stories of his uncle’s death, a dark shadow stabbing Renly through the heart. He struggled to find his flint, the candle on his nightstand laying in wait.

"Don't worry." said a voice just as a spark caught and the room filled with the warm glow of candlelight. "It's me."

Margaery Tyrell came into view slowly. She wore a thin dressing gown and an obvious lack of smallclothes, the small points of her nipples poking through the silk she wore. Tommen looked pointedly awake, thankful for the darkness, as Margaery could not see the apples of his cheeks as bright as flame. "Margaery?" he repeated uncertainly.

A soft hand reached out to stroke his hair, brushing a strand of golden-blonde hair behind his ear. "Yes." her breath was soft and warm, smelling of mint and cloves and lemon from the tea she had drank. "Sweet boy." she said. The bed sank lightly with the weight of another person. "Sweet King."

There was a sound of scratching on wood and Margaery jumped as Ser Pounce hopped into her lap. She laughed lightly, "I am glad you enjoyed my gifts." she said. "He is sweet." She scratched the golden cat behind the ears.

"I named him Ser Pounce." he stuttered, swallowing the lump in his throat. "A-And that is Boots," he pointed to the dark cat sitting on the windowsill. "And Whiskers." he pointed to the stripped cat that had curled up at Margaery's feet. "And Sansa." Tommen gestured to the last of the cats, a light orange thing that had curled into a ball at his side.

"A sweet name for a sweet cat." Admired she. "Are you and Sansa friends?"

"Yes." said Tommen. "She was kind to me when..."

"When what?" asked Margaery as he trailed off.

"When Joffrey was not." he said firmly. He was ashamed to admit he still felt afraid of his brother even after Joffrey was dead.

"What do you mean?" asked Margaery, her hand brushing against his.

"He threatened to kill Ser Pounce." said Joffrey. "Just after you gave him to me. He said he would kill him and skin him and feed him to me."

Margaery put a hand to her mouth. "I am sorry, Tommen." she said, her lips pulling into a smile. "You are safe now. I am to be your wife. I will keep you safe." Her hand was light as a feather in his, her fingers entwined with his.

She leaned forward to pet Boots and Tommen felt his blush deepen as the folds of her gown slightly parted and her right breast became fully visible. "I should not be here." said Margaery, rising to leave. "You should be sleeping. I only thought a husband and wife should get to know each other better."

"No!" said Tommen, further embarrassed by the rapidity of his response. "No…I like it when you visit." he said, pacing his words.

Her face brightened. "Should I visit again?" she whispered, as if there words were a secret.

His breathing quickened as she leaned towards him again, her dress opening further. He felt his heart beating rapidly. "Y-yes." he said. His lips puckered slightly, anticipating the feel of her. Instead her rosebud lips pressed to his brow. "Yes, I would like it very much if you were to visit me again."

She did not respond until she was almost out the door, the only thing left of her being a swish of silk skirts. Her voice was as soft as the wind. "As my King wishes."


	25. The North Remembers

_Chapter Twenty-Five_

_Catelyn Tully Stark_

When Catelyn entered the tent and saw the letter she nearly collapsed. Robb Stark stood beside Edemure, both men looking as grave as if they had just seen the Stranger appear before them.

“What is it?” Catelyn asked. The words had come out far more high pitched then she intended, the woman having practically screamed them instead of simply speaking the words. “Robb what is it?” she demanded when he did not answer.

“It’s a letter.” Said Edemure Tully.

She crossed the room in a matter of seconds, trying to snatch the letter from her son’s hands. “Thank you Edemure I do have eyes.” Catelyn snapped. “What does the letter _say_?”

Robb walked towards her, taking her hand softly. “It is from Sansa.”

Catelyn did not remember fainting, only being roused by Edemure Tully. Her brother stood over her, the sounds of Robb calling for a nurse faint and far away. The world before her spun, Robb’s tent nothing but a blur of beige and white. She was on the floor, her gown askew, and her head aching from where it had struck the corner of the desk.

“Mother.” Said Robb, cradling her head as he lifted her into his arms. _He is strong_ , thought Catelyn _. Like his father_.

He dabbed a cloth to her temple, wiping away the blood. “What does the letter say?” she asked groggily.

“Mother-“

“What does it say?” she screamed. The sound made her head swim, her voice too loud and too sharp.

“Sansa is six moons heavy with child.” He said. The thought of a man touching her daughter made Catelyn nearly faint again. “By the Khal of course.” He continued, as if there had been any doubt in Catelyn’s mind. “She writes that the child is to be named Eddard.”

Catelyn cried, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She cried for Sansa and for her maidenhead, she cried for Ned and Winterfell, she cried for Bran and Rickon, she cried for Robb and the war, she cried for Arya, she cried for the life she should have known.

She should have grown old and gray in Winterfell, sitting at Ned’s side, with her grandchildren balanced upon her knee and their screams reverberating in the hall. She should have faced her death surrounded with her children. _All of her children_. She should have told the truth when she had the chance.

Robb handed her the letter, Catelyn wiping away her tears as they fell upon the parchment and made the ink run. Sansa was not unhappy, her letter holding no clues as to her state of mind. She was heavy with child, healthy and strong for her age.

Catelyn ached to see her, ached to hug her, ached to run a brush through her auburn hair.

_That hair_ , though Catelyn. _Always a blessing that hair was_. There was never a need to dye it, as Ned had worried. No it had always been red. Red as flame, red as sand, red as the Targaryen dragon.

“She plans to cross the Narrow Sea.” Said Robb, sitting behind his desk and pushing his chair back with a scrape of wood and a clang of metal. “She plans to kill the Lannisters.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” muttered Edemure, walking aimlessly around the room. “But how?”

“The Khal has forty thousand men in his Khalasar.” Said Robb, his head in his hands. “That’s more than the Lannister’s and Baratheon’s have combined. But the Dothraki do not cross oceans.”

“They will now.” Said Catelyn, raising the letter. “They have gold. Gold enough to buy ships. Ships enough to take forty thousand men across the Narrow Sea.”

“What else did she say?” asked Edemure but Catelyn held tightly to the letter. It was her last piece of Sansa. She felt as though in the letter her daughter still lived, like the young girl she had once known was still alive but just out of reach.

“She said the Khal promised her the head of Joffrey.” Said Robb.

“He’ll have to pull it out of his tomb.” Said Edemure with a short laugh. “But I imagine Cersei’s head would do just fine in his place.”

“This is no laughing matter.” Said Catelyn, half shouting. She gripped her chest, the pain of her heartache too great to bear. “If Sansa and her Khal cross the narrow sea they will die.”

“Die?” interrupted Edemure, aghast. “Forty thousand men against twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand in Tywin’s army alone.” Replied Robb, looking at the pieces of his map. “Forty thousand in Joffrey’s.”

“Sansa cannot do this.” Said Catelyn.

“She is not Sansa anymore.” Said Robb, wrapping his arm around her thin shoulders. They shook beneath his touch, Catelyn dropping her face into her hands. “She is the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. She is the Khaleesi of forty thousand men.”

“Forty thousand is not enough!” shouted Catelyn Tully Stark.

“No.” said Robb. “Forty thousand is not enough.” He looked down at the direwolf pieces on the map. “But a hundred thousand. That is enough.”


	26. In The Fires

_Chapter Twenty-Six_

_Jon Snow_

Jon’s door opened slowly and with a creak, a burst of cold filling the room. A fire roared in its hearth, the smell of roasting potatoes and onion wafting up from the dining hall.

The Lord Commander did not look up from his parchment, expecting Sam to have entered the room with his supper. His quill scratched against the parchment, drops of dark ink dripping from the end of the feather quill and back into the ink well.

He heard the sound of china scraping against wood as his plate was set on the table behind him. “Thank you, Sam.” Said Jon.

“Your welcome, Lord Commander.” Said a silky voice.

Jon whipped around, his neck jarring with the effort. “Lady Melisandre.” He said in surprise, standing.

She stood before his door in a swirl of red robes, her boots leaving soft spots of snow against the stone and it was clear she had been standing on the battlements. “Lord Commander.” She repeated with a curtsy. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” Replied Jon. His plate sent plumes of steam through the air and he felt his stomach grumbling with hunger. “Does Lord Stannis require a meeting?” he asked.

Under Melisandre’s gaze he squirmed, her eyes as bright as the moon just visible through the window over Jon’s shoulder. “Not Stannis.” She replied, sinking into the chair opposite. “I wished to speak to you. Please eat,” she said upon hearing the loud rumbling echoing from Jon’s stomach.

As Jon used the side of his fork to cut a piece of egg and fork it into his mouth Melisandre watched him. Her eyes were hard and cold, inspecting every inch of him. He felt her eyes sweeping over him from head to toe, watching as his lips parted to accommodate the slice of sausage he had cut.

He was uncomfortably stiff, his spine rigid as a pole. “R’hllor has given me the sight.” said Melisandre abruptly, a piece of egg dropping from his fork as he jumped in surprise. “In the fires I am able to see things that others cannot.”

This, of course, was no surprise to Jon Snow, who had witnessed firsthand the Red Woman gazing into her fires.

Melisandre watched him. “There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breathe of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.”

He opened his mouth to speak but the Red Woman continued, undeterred. “When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt.”

Jon had stopped eating, his potatoes and sausages growing cold, the steam dissipating in the icy chamber. “And Stannis is Azor Ahai?” he asked, setting down his fork.

She adjusted her heavy robes. “Yes.” Said Melisandre. The ruby at her neck glowed beneath the collar of her red gown.  “Yes, I used to think so.”

A beat passed before Jon realized what she had said. “Used?” asked he. His meal was certainly forgotten now.

“Yes I used to think so.” She said. “And now…”

“And now?” he questioned.

“I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai and R’hllor shows me only Snow.” She said.

“Snow?” he repeated.

“Or should I say Stark.” Melisandre said, her eyes fixed upon him.

A hand of ice gripped his heart. “I-“ he began.

She waved him away. “Do not deny it Lord Commander. You are the true son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.” Jon did not bother asking how she knew. Melisandre watched him, waiting for a reaction though he gave none. “Tell me Lord Commander, do you know the truth?”

“The truth?” Jon suddenly felt foolish for asking so many questions.

“The truth of your siblings.” She raised a copper colored eyebrow. “The truth of your sister. Or should I say your lover.”

Jon stood suddenly, upturning his plate and sending slabs of china crashing over the stone with a smash. His chair followed, tipping backwards as mahogany crashed against stone. “Do not worry, Jon Snow.” Said Melisandre with a short, cold laugh. “I do not judge cousin’s for loving one another.”

He felt a hand of ice grip his heart. He could not find the words to speak.

Melisandre’s eyes rose to him, standing from her chair until they stood chest to chest. “R’hllor has given me sight enough to see through a bit of drops and red hair.” He opened his mouth to speak but she continued, her hand resting upon his shoulder. “Lord Commander I assure you I know a Targaryen when I see one.”


	27. Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter grew to be too large so it was forced to be split in half.

_Chapter Twenty-Seven_

_Tyrion Lannister_

Sansa Stark ran her fingers over her stomach. Her belly had grown large and round and at first had become a hindrance but she had quickly adapted. She could still ride, though she needed the Khal or Ser Jorah to lift her into the saddle and Tyrion often rode beside her, if not for her safety than his as the stress of her pregnancy was growing too much for him.

“Are you sure she should be riding?” Tyrion asked Ser Jorah nearly every day as they mounted their saddles.

“Yes.” Said Ser Jorah, as he replied nearly every day. “A woman can ride until her tenth moon, and even then they are sometimes able to continue.”

The skin of her belly was paper-thin and every once in a while she felt something moving beneath her fingers.

She guided one of Shae's hands and one of Tyrion’s hands to each side her stomach, the two feeling Eddard moving just beneath her hand. Shae grinned, giving Sansa a motherly hug and Tyrion felt as proud as if Eddard Stark had somehow occupied his body and was watching his eldest daughter.

Sandor Clegane stood beside her, his eyes staring straight forward. "Would you like to feel?" asked Sansa. Her voice was low and though he pretended to be more interested in the dirt beneath his nails, Tyrion heard every word

Sandor looked visibly uncomfortable. "No, little bird."

"Khaleesi!" Irri corrected sharply from her side.

"It's okay Irri." said Sansa, standing. Shae and Irri helped her to her feet, Sansa looking as if she had a sweet melon stuffed under her shirt.

She moved to stand before Sandor, looking up at him. She lifted a hand, her thin fingers reaching towards the burned side of his face. He flinched, jerking away but Sansa did not stop. Tyrion watched the scene quizzically, curious as to the knight’s reaction. "Sandor." she whispered. "You are not what they say you are."

"I am." he grunted.

Sansa brushed aside a strand of greasy hair from his face and tilted his chin towards her. "You came back for me in King's Landing. If you hadn't I would be dead right now. Soiled and dead, most like with my throat cut open.” She said. He did not respond.

Continued she, undeterred by his lack of response. "You are not your brother. You are a good man." she moved his large hand to her belly. Even through his leather gloves he could feel Eddard kicking and a half smile rose to his face before he quickly wiped the look from his face.

"Thank you, Khaleesi." he replied. It was the softest his voice had ever been and there was a look in his eyes Sansa had only seen once before.

"And thank you." she said. His brows furrowed in confusion. "The night Stannis' army attacked King's Landing. When you offered to take me away. Thank you."

Tyrion remembered the night as clearly as if it had occurred the night prior but he had never heard this story. He knew that Cersei had kept all the high ladies in Baelor’s tower and that Sansa had slipped away in the night but he did not know what might have happened. Especially if Sansa had accepted Sandor’s offer.

He didn't respond, his head bobbing up and down a few times.

The Khal approached, his long braid swinging in the wind and the wound on his chest looking red and sore. “My sun and stars.” Said Sansa, Drogo offering a hand and pulling her towards him.

It was almost comical to Tyrion. Besides Khal Drogo Sansa looked as small and fragile as a paper doll, her red hair a stark contrast to his black hair and her eyes light in the summer sun. Drogo’s shoulders were freckled and sun spotted yet Sansa’s remained blemish free, the color of fresh cream.

 _Come to think of it_ , thought Tyrion. _I have never seen her sunburned. Not once._


	28. Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two

_Chapter Twenty-Eight_

_Tyrion Lannister_

Tyrion often thought of a conversation he had once had with Eddard Stark. “We all have our secrets.” Tyrion had said.

“Yes.” Eddard had said, meeting Tyrion’s gaze. “We all do.” At the time Tyrion had thought the Lord was alluding to the not so secret meetings between his brother and sister. But now…

Tyrion often wondered what Eddard had meant. It drove him mad sometimes. He had spent more than one night lying awake in his bed; staring at the ceiling and wondering what sordid secrets Eddard might have kept.

But as the days passed and the nights blended together he started to notice a change in Sansa. She was no longer the quiet thing he had known in King’s Landing, with her hair braided like Cersei and her gown in the same styles as Margaery Tyrell.

She was a woman grown. Even with her belly round and large she was still slim, her arms strong and her legs long, her hair braided and wrapped with ribbons. She alternated between Dothraki and Westerosi garb; her Northern dresses packed away in the trunks that rode at the end of the Khalasar.

Tyrion looked after her. In the Western light her eyes were so light they were nearly clear. He had always thought it to be a reaction of the light against the pallor of her skin but Sansa’s eyes glowed violet. _Violet like Daenerys Targaryen’s. Violet like Rhaegar Targaryen’s._

He had long ago begun to suspect the truth of Sansa Stark. She did not resemble Eddard Stark. There was not a feature on her face that matched that of her father. Tyrion had always assumed she carried the looks of her mother but even now the only comparison he could draw between the two was Sansa’s hair. _Tully red_ , they had always said. But Tyrion thought otherwise.

He remembered the days Elia and Oberyn Martell had come to Lannisport, their mother's hoping for an arrangement between the two houses. Tyrion was only a child then but he still remembered. Oberyn had always been wild, his eyes full of fire and his heart full of passion but Elia had been shy and quiet, often whispering with her brother and blushing hotly when she was spoken to.

When she was young her hair had been the color of burned copper, her mother bragging of how that meant she was filled with Dornish fire. Elia was a plain girl from the start, her features typically Western, her hair long and evenly cut, done in no particular style. Cersei had teased her, calling her Elia the Eager, eager to marry Jaime, eager to be a princess.

Tyrion did not blame Rhaegar for taking a mistress but he had always hated the fate Elia suffered because of it. Over the years he and Oberyn had remained friends and the Dornishman always had his doubts, writing to Tyrion with his suspicions and eventually sailing to King’s Landing in hopes of catching a glimpse of the girl.

“But Rhaegar’s children were all killed.” Oberyn had said, burning with fury. “Their bodies were presented to Robert.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Aegon and Rhaeneys.” Said Tyrion. “Their bodies were presented. But if the whispers can be believed Aegon is still alive and well, traveling with Daenerys and Viserys.”

“So what?” asked Oberyn, keeping his voice down.

“So if Aegon is still alive why not Rhaeneys?” asked Tyrion. “And why not Sansa, the last child Elia and Rhaegar bore.”

“She was only with child twice.” Her brother had protested.

“Publically, yes.” Said Tyrion. “The Mad King did not like Elia, it was said he oft tried to rid himself of her, especially towards the end of his rein. So it would be no surprise that if Elia had once again fallen with child she would have hid it from him. Maybe even from Rhaegar.”

“She wrote to me.” Oberyn said, his face in his hands. “She wrote to me saying that she needed to speak with me. She asked me to come to King’s Landing at once but I was…and then...then it was too late.”

“We cannot know for sure.” Said Tyrion, putting a hand on the Dornishmen’s shoulder

Oberyn met his gaze, looking between him and Sansa Stark, the girl sitting with Margaery and Loras Tyrell in the gardens of the Red Keep. “Yes, we can.”


	29. Water Gardens

_Chapter Twenty-Nine_

_Oberyn Martell_

The main hall at Sunspear was nearly empty save the Prince of Dorne, his brother, and both men’s daughters.

Doran looked grave, not that that was unusual to Oberyn, who swore to his daughters that his brother had been born with a frown on his face. Arianne Martell stood beside her father’s throne, her back and shoulders bare as she wore not much more than flowing silks. But her face was far from grave, an almond shaped brown eye winking at her uncle as he crossed the room.

Arianne hid her smile as she greeted them. "What is it?" asked Oberyn Martell. His hands had unconsciously turned to fists at his sides, his eyes moving between Arianne and Doran’s covered legs. His brother sat in his wheelchair, his legs covered with a large blanket but Oberyn could see his face twisted in pain.

"Is it...are you..." he trailed off, his mind racing as he preemptively came to morbid conclusions.

"I am well." Doran insisted, giving Oberyn a weak smile. His eyes were bloodshot and without asking Oberyn knew he had spent another night with little sleep, the pain of his legs too great. _I am sure he refused milk of the poppy_ , he thought. _He always does_. "A raven arrived this morning with news of the Targaryen’s."

"And?" questioned the younger of the two brothers.

Doran's eyes narrowed and Arianne suppressed another smile. "Viserys Targaryen is dead." Said he.

"Dead?" repeated Oberyn, aghast. "How?"

"Street fighting." said Arianne. Oberyn assumed the boy had died of the heat or of a fall from his horse but street fighting…he had always heard the eldest Targaryen was a pompous fool and this only proved it.

"What does this mean for you?" Nymeria Sand asked her cousin. She stood at her father’s side, refined and elegant as usual, her dark hair bound with copper wires and strands of golden string. Her eyes were wide, alternating between happiness and confusion as she looked upon Arianne.

Arianne squashed her smile. "Father says I am no longer to marry Viserys." Obara grinned and Tyene nudged her lightly in the side.

"Yes that is true." said Doran with a firm nod. "But you will marry Aegon."

Arianne's smile faded faster the Dornish sun.  "What?" she demanded. It was clear that this was the first time she had heard any news of this arrangement.

“What?” repeated Nymeria. Her eyes glistened and Oberyn could clearly see her happiness. Nymeria had never been happy with the arrangement but had known it to be her duty, accepting her fate as wife and mother with little protest, unlike Arianne who had locked herself in her chambers for nearly a fortnight upon hearing the news.

"He's a child." Said Arianne, half shouting. Her voice reverberated in the wide hall and the knights at the door bristled.

"He's a Targaryen." said Doran firmly. There was no mobility in his voice and it was clear his mind had been made.

"Arianne." whispered Oberyn softly. He walked to his niece and she entered his embrace. She smelled of lavender and sweet soaps, her dark hair glistening with perfumed oils. "I know this is not the news you anticipated but..."

"But what?" she said heatedly, glaring at her father beneath Oberyn’s shoulder. "You are not marrying a boy half your age."

"You are right." replied Oberyn, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked over his shoulder at his daughters, the eight women standing in a line. "I am marrying a _girl_ half my age. We are not truly sure if she has even had her moon’s blood yet." said he with a troubled sigh. "I am to marry a girl the age of my daughters."

Obara’s frown deepened, Nymeria and Tyene looked sad and Elia, still in her riding clothes, watched him sadly, her pink lips deeply pouted. Dorea Sand gripped Oberyn’s hand, having approached her father and cousin on the platform beside Doran’s seat and her face nuzzled into his hip.

Arianne had nothing more to say on the subject, instead stewing in her silence and occasionally glaring at Doran, sinking into her seat.

"They have reached Lys." said the Prince of Dorne, continuing as if no one had spoken. Arianne let out a huff. "They will soon cross the Narrow Sea. If the tides are with us they should reach Dorne within two moons."

"And what then?" asked Arianne, sitting forward. The golden bracelets on her arm jingled together as she moved. "We raise the banners and plot our attacks on the Lannisters?"

Doran gave her a dirty look. "If we are fools, yes that is exactly what we will do." said he, a hard edge to his voice. "But we are not fools. When they arrive we will allow them to rest. The two have been walking and riding for months, they will be happy to see a pillow let alone a featherbed. Most like they will sleep for days."

"And after they sleep?" asked Oberyn.

Doran sighed. "The weddings will commence."

Both Oberyn and Arianne fell silent, nodding to the Prince of Sunspear. There was no use arguing, Arianne knew. When Doran made up his mind there was nothing she could do to change it.

And Oberyn Martell knew it was his duty to marry Daenerys Targaryen; it was his duty to join their houses, a duty to claim her maidenhead and fill her with child. But it would be a pleasure to destroy the Lannisters.


	30. Walder Frey

_Chapter Thirty_

_Robb Stark_

When they first reached the Twins a storm was raging. Thick drops of rain fell heavily upon the head of Robb Stark and his host, his vision blurred by the mist and he was thankful that the path they rode was not perilous as he could barely see the hand before his face let alone the path.

His mother rode at his side, her hood raised and her gown sopping wet, thunder raging above their heads. “Are you ready?” asked Catelyn Stark as they stood before the large double doors of the main tower.

“Yes.” Said Robb firmly.

The mahogany doors were pulled open from the inside, the hall growing silent with their entrance. Robb and Catelyn passed many of Walder Frey’s sons, slack jawed and dumb looking men, who had paused as they ate or drank or spoke and all watched the pair as they crossed the room.

At the front of the room Walder Frey sat, his young blonde wife at his side, and a smile on his face as one of his fools attempted to juggle six chickens. Robb frowned. The girl that Walder called wife was no older than his sister and the thought of Arya married to a man Walder’s age made him sick.

“Robb Stark.” Said he, standing from his seat. His legs were wobbly and uncertain, his arms thin and sore. “Or should I say King Robb.”

After the pleasantries were over and done with the Starks and their guests were seated and the food was served. Robb felt his stomach grumble loudly with hunger and his eyes widened at the sight of roast pig and roasted potatoes.

He served himself two plates before he even felt his hunger satisfied. He barely even spoke, too preoccupied with the creaminess of the potatoes and the crispiness of the pigskin to pay much attention to anything. Catelyn was speaking to Walder Frey’s daughter, both women smiling politely and engaging in small talk.

Walder Frey clapped his hands together, the sounds of the band dying down and Robb looked up from his plate. “Your grace.” Walder said, his voice loud enough to be heard by every man in the room. “It is time to pick your bride.”

As slaves are presented to a potential buyer Walder Frey’s daughters were brought out. The girls entered the room slowly and stood before him in a line, pressed shoulder to shoulder. It was clear they had been dressed in their finest gowns but Robb could barely tell.

Walder began his introductions, standing from his seat. “My daughter Arwaya, my daughter Walda, my daughters Derwa and Waldra, and my daughter Roslin.” Walder Frey said boredly. His voice was rambling and dragging, pausing more than once to take in a sip of red wine.

“My granddaughters Janeya and Neyela, my granddaughters Serra and Sarra, twins. You can have either or both for all I care. My granddaughter Marianne, my granddaughter…” he trailed off. “Wertha?” he questioned. The bushy haired girl shook her head. “Walra?” he asked again. She looked visibly uncomfortable, shaking her head again. “Waldina?”

“I’m Merry.” She said. Her voice was soft as the flesh of her middle.

“And my great niece Walda.” He finished. “Take your pick, your grace.” Walder said with a wave of his hand. 

Lord Frey’s sons watched him carefully, the band softly striking up again from a platform above their heads. Catelyn Stark urged Robb forward with a nod and a slight push.

The girls were some of the most unattractive Robb had ever seen. Most of them had the hooknoses and twisting mouths of their father and when paired with bushy, matted hair and unbrushed teeth Robb forcefully struggled to hide his frown.

He passed four of Walder’s daughters, the girls dressed in dresses that more resembled potato sacks instead of gowns, and knew he had to choose quickly. Walder Frey was watching him closely and Robb knew that the longer he took to choose the more it would be seen as a slight.

Robb took one of the girl’s hands. Her skin was soft as butter and pale as porcelain as he led her from the line of girls and stood her at his side. “Ahhh.” Said Walder Frey. “Quite a pretty thing, is she not?” he asked.

“She is, my lord.” Replied Robb, bringing down the hood of her cloak. She was actually quite pretty, with long brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her mouth was small but her lips pink and her breath smelled of mint and juniper, the girl dressed in a simple white and green gown.

“King in the North.” Introduced Lord Walder, gesturing between the two. The girl met his eyes shyly, an endearing blush flooding her cheeks and Robb faintly smiled. “Your soon to be wife, Roslin Frey, my daughter.” He said. “The wedding will take place on the morrow.”


	31. The Wedding of Robb Stark

_Chapter Thirty_

_Catelyn Stark_

She had not had a proper meal in weeks, nearly months. When she smelled the roast ham and sweet pork her mouth watered, her stomach nearly bursting with hunger. Her plate was loaded with food, from breads to meats to sweet rolls she was sure were bestowed by the Seven.

“My lady slow down,” said Edemure. “The food will still be there five minutes from now.”  He laughed and downed his forth glass of wine, his face red with merriment. He was even drunk enough to flirt with one of Walder Frey’s daughters, thought Catelyn could not tell which.

_They all look the same_ , she thought. _Ratty hair and ratty clothes, poor things_.

She was reminded of Arya. Her youngest daughter always seemed to look messy, no matter how many times she had bathed or the fine gowns she wore she always managed to look a mess. Catelyn remembered fondly, though Arya’s messiness had been the bane of her existence at one point.

She would have given anything to see Arya’s frizzy hair or bruised knees just once more.

The wedding was over and done with quickly. Robb looked so handsome, Catelyn nearly cried when he had come out of his chambers. With his hair combed back and his tunic tightly laced he looked just like Ned had at his age.

Catelyn hastily wiped away a tear, turning back to her spiced wine and let the flavors dance on her tongue. _Dornish_ , she mused. She would have liked to visit Dorne one day.

Roslin Frey was young and shy, her cheeks glowing permanently pink and her eyes always downcast. Catelyn wondered what it would be like when the bedding ceremony began. She wore a white gown, simple and unadorned, but she was still beautiful.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby see you these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.” Said the Septon.

Robb turned to Roslin, taking her hand softly. The way he looked at her was polite, somewhat shy, and if Catelyn hadn’t known better the look could have been mistaken for affection.

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, ‘till the end of my days.” He said. His voice was restrained and measured, the words not forced, but just nearly so.

Roslin spoke shyly. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, ‘till the end of my days.” She repeated.

Their first kiss was simple and chaste, nothing special passing between them. When the dining ceremony began Catelyn was ravenous, nearly as much so as her son and her brother. The two men paid more attention to their plates than their women, Robb finding more romance was a slice of warm bread than Roslin.

Roslin Stark ate little and Catelyn remembered the nerves she had felt upon her bedding with Eddard.

She approached the girl, bending beside her seat and whispering into her ear, “Do not fret, my dear. It will be done and over with soon.” Roslin gave her a shy smile and thanked her. Catelyn rested her hand upon hers. “Eat something, dear. I made the mistake of not enjoying my wedding feast, you should not do the same.”

When it came time for the bedding ceremony Walder Frey clapped his hands, the band fading away as his daughters and granddaughters hefted Robb on their shoulders. With pale, thin fingers they tugged at his clothing, pulling free the laces of his tunic and popping out the buttons at the top of his breeches.

Their hands touched and groped and brushed, their fingers reaching places Catelyn did not want to think of her son possessing.

Edemure had Roslin on one of his shoulders, Smalljon Umber using a knife to cut the laces of her gown. “Careful!” called Catelyn after them. She hated the bedding ceremony. As if the bedding was not nerve-wracking enough. Greatjon Umber walked after them, shaking his head at the behavior of his son and promising Catelyn he would look after the girl.

When they disappeared Catelyn returned to her empty plate, wishing she could occupy her mouth with food instead of words. One of Walder’s unfortunate looking daughters was speaking to her, her teeth twice the size of her mouth and Catelyn was having trouble hearing, nodding along and showing a smile every once in a while.

The band played the Bear and the Maiden Fair and a few couples started dancing, Walder’s sons doing a rehearsed jig. On her other side Roose Bolton was speaking to Black Walder about Fat Walda, promising the lady was well.

He returned to his seat beside Catelyn. “Robb was lucky.” He said. “Far luckier than I was. Walda is a kind woman but so fat. Fatter than half the men I’ve ever seen.” He said and Catelyn cracked a smile. “She could survive a war on her belly alone. Hell _we_ could survive a war on her belly alone, should worst come to worst.”

“Roslin is fair.” Agreed Catelyn. The band was playing a familiar song, one she had not heard in a long while. She raised her head, her interest certainly piqued, her eyes narrowing as she looked upon the band.

She recognized the song and rose so quickly from her seat that the wooden chair upended, taking with it the table cloth and thirteen plates. The china crashed to the floor with a jarring sound and she jumped as Roose Bolton stood beside her, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

_The Rains of Castamere_ , she thought and her blood ran cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who had left such wonderful comments and kudos. I love your feedback, please do not stop.


	32. The Red Wedding

_Chapter Thirty-Two_

_Catelyn Stark_

“What is this?” she demanded of Roose Bolton. She flipped the unlaced end of his sleeve, finding chainmail and silver plait beneath. She was filled with a disorienting mix of fear and fury, her hand raised and poised to slap.

“Do not.” Whispered Roose. “Everything is-.”

“What-“ she began but the thwang of crossbows interrupted.

Roose pushed her to the ground, the Greatjon Umber upending the table to protect her from the rain of arrows. She heard screaming and three bodies fell in beside her. “Where is Robb?” she demanded, grabbing Roose’s pant leg. “Where is my son?”

As she peaked over the table she saw the musicians had replaced their instruments with crossbows, their arrows sailing in all directions. She heard the clash of swords and the sound of releasing arrows. “Get down!” cried Edemure, but it was too late.

An arrow punched into her shoulder and she fell backward, her back crashing through a collection of wine glasses, the glass cutting into her flesh. “Where is my son?” she screamed.

Blood ran down her skin, staining her gown and tickling as it fell.  “He is safe.” Said Edemure.

He held his sword in hand, his cheeks flushed from exertion and his lips curled. He was spattered with blood, thought, as Catelyn had feared, it was not his.

“What is happening?” asked Catelyn. The pain from her shoulder was almost too great to bear and she felt herself fading from consciousness. When she opened her eyes again she found Edemure kneeling beside her. 

The arrow protruded from her shoulder, the arrowhead dug deep enough to come out the other side. The blood had long ago dried and crusted around the wound, her green gown turned dark orange. Edemure helped her to her feet, more than supporting her weight.

Her head was light but her body lighter and Edemure was almost thankful that Catelyn had been so long malnourished. Even through the layers of her gown he could feel the sharpness of her bones as they protruded through her skin and he lifted her into his arms.

“Where is he?” asked Catelyn weakly. It was difficult to hold Catelyn so he did not further puncture her skin with the arrow.

“Where is Jeyne?” Roose Bolton commanded. His voice was far away and deep and in Catelyn’s state of confusion the trimmed beard he wore resembled a shadow crossing his face. “Bring Jeyne now!”

“But my lord-“ came a voice.

“Lady Catelyn needs assistance. Bring her now!” he yelled.

What felt like seconds later Jeyne Westerling kneeled before Catelyn. Lady Stark screamed as Jeyne snapped the arrow in two, pulling one end free while the other remained too deeply embedded to be easily removed. “Milk of the poppy.” Offered Jeyne, passing Catelyn a vial.

“Where is my son?” repeated Catelyn. Her voice was hollow and dry, her throat scratching like she had never felt.

“Mother.” She heard his voice and swore to the Seven Gods she had never been so relieved. Robb appeared before her, his gloved hand sliding into hers. “Mother.” He promised, his warm lips coming down upon her knuckles. “Take the milk of the poppy, you will need it for the arrow to be removed.”

Even disoriented and sedated Catelyn screamed when the other end of the arrow was removed. It took Robb and Roose Bolton to hold her down, her shoulders shaking. Her dress had been cut away and she shivered in the icy air, gooseflesh rising on her arms and running down her back.

Robb frowned, able to could count the bones of her ribs and each notch of her spine from neck to waist. “Get something to cover her.” he said. He knew she would not like to be so indisposed before the public.

“What happened?” she asked, hours later when she awoke in a strange bed, with her shoulder wrapped and her head feeling fuzzy and unfamiliar. Roslin Frey sat in a seat beside her bed and came forward the instant Catelyn spoke.

“Robb wished for me to stay with you.” She said. Her voice was not nearly so meek anymore.

“What happened?” she repeated.

“Lady Stark.” Said Roslin. “Walder Frey is dead.”

“Dead?” repeated Catelyn, struggling to sit up.

“At the hands of Robb.” Said she. “It was all arranged.”

“And I was not told of this for what reason?” Catelyn snapped and then apologized, sinking back against her cushions.

“We did not want to endanger you.” Said Robb, his large body taking up much of the space of the doorway. “Good lot of luck that was.” He said with a roll of his eyes as he sat at the edge of his mother’s bed. “How do you fare?”

“Well.” She replied. “I demand to know what occurred.”

“Walder Frey is dead.” Repeated Robb. “As is Black Walder, Stevron, Ryger, Olyvar, and Waldron.”

“Why?” she asked. “He was not a kind man but he is a Northern man. A bannerman of my father-“

“He was a man who had planned to kill us all tonight.” Said Robb. His voice was hard and inflexible. _The voice of a king_ , thought Catelyn. “Tywin Lannister’s plan no doubt, but it was to be executed by Walder. Roose told us the plans nearly a fortnight ago.”

“And?”

“And when it was time for them to kill us at our tables and in our beds, the gesture was returned, tenfold.”

“Why did it have to come to this?” whispered Catelyn, a tear coming down her cheek.

“You must remember who the real enemy is, mother.” Said Robb, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Catelyn felt her face harden. She ached for Arya, for Sansa, for Ned, for Jon, for Winterfell. She ached for her secrets and her lies and deceptions; she ached for Sansa and her Khal and the fact that she might never see her first grandchild.

As she spoke her voice was cold and hollow. “The North remembers.” Said she.


	33. Fire

_Chapter Thirty-Three_

_Sansa Stark_

Sansa stared at the eggs as they glowed in her satchel. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, perhaps a strange reflection of the sun, perhaps the heat of the desert was causing her to hallucinate as it had so many others. _Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps_.

“What is it, Khaleesi?” asked Jorah Mormont. He rode beside her.

“I received a letter.” Tyrion interrupted, his horse galloping up and falling into step beside hers. “Sorry to interrupt.” He apologized. “But it is urgent.”

Sansa recognized the seal and nearly tore the letter in two in her haste. “What is it?” asked Tyrion. The letter had been untouched so Sansa knew it had not been read before her.

“It’s from my brother.” She said, her eyes moving back and forth across the parchment. She did not realize she was holding her breath until she felt her throat tighten and a great pressure grow in her chest. “Joffrey Baratheon is dead.” She repeated, a smile pulling at her lips. “He writes that he cannot say more but he has sent a rider to Lys to deliver another message.”

“Do you trust this rider?” asked Tyrion and Ser Jorah in the same moment, exchanging a pointed look.

“It is Rickard Karstark.” Sansa said with a sigh of relief. “He is loyal to my father and my family. I would trust him with everything I hold dear.”

She heard her name being called and dug her heels into the horse’s side, galloping forward to where Khal Drogo rode. “What is it?” she asked, concerned. “Are you well?” she looked suspiciously at the wound on his chest.

Tyrion had inspected it and after a few hours of convincing the Khal, Drogo had allowed him to make and place a poultice. It had smelled foul, as Drogo so often had said. He had complained of the scent and the feel and the look of the poultice, claiming a wound was like a badge of honor.

“Sansa.” Drogo replied. His fingers brushed hers affectionately. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. That is when I will be unwell. That is when I will fall.”

He kissed her lightly, his thumb dragging over her rosy lips. “You must not waste your precious words asking me so often if I am well.”

Even in such a guttural language as Dothraki Sansa thought the words beautiful. She even felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “How is Eddard?” he asked, his large hand falling to her swollen belly. “How is the stallion that mounts the world?”

She placed her hand over his, their fingers entwining. “Our son is well. He kicks often.”

“He is practicing for when he will unite the Khalasar.” Said Drogo. He looked at Sansa affectionately, smiling, a gesture she returned with interest.

They spoke briefly before arriving at another village and Sansa was forced to stay back with Tyrion and Ser Jorah and her handmaidens, watching the carnage before her.

“You must not rape.” She had told Drogo as they lay together in bed, her head on his chest. Her fingers had curled in the dark hair on his chest as she listened to the beat of his heart and felt the rise and fall of his chest.

“Sansa.” He began. “It is the way of war.”

“Not anymore.” She said, propping herself up on one elbow. Her voice was strong and her eyes unflinching as she met his.

For a moment they did not speak, his chest still. She watched him, violet eyes narrowing. “My son.” He said finally. “He fills you with his fire.” And another few minutes later he spoke again. “If my Khaleesi wished it, it is done.”

So as Sansa watched the blood spatter over the hot desert earth and her ears were filled with the sounds of screaming and the clash of swords she saw no men taking women, no trousers pushed down, no maidens bleeding and crying out in pain and fear.

 _It is a start_ , thought Sansa, her eyes scanning the crowd. _For now it will do._


	34. The Ship

_Chapter Thirty-Four_

_Aegon Vi Targaryen_

Aegon had never known seasickness, not before now. He had never before boarded a ship, never before even seen an ocean that did not border Pentos.

He remembered three times when he had swam, once in the Narrow Sea, and twice in the cesspool that was the lake near Pentos, where women washed dirty clothes and young boys pissed and shat and swam.

But being aboard a ship was different. His first three days at sea he had not left his cabin, his face shoved into a bucket and his stomach heaving. He was not able to eat more than bits of stale bread and sips of fresh water for the first week of travel.

Only then did his stomach settle enough for him to stand beside a window or on the deck of the ship and watch the waves. He liked to stand near the railing and watch the blue-green waves rise and fall and to feel the ship moving and groaning beneath his feet.

Jon Connington did not let Daenerys from his sight for more than a moment. “She is not safe here.” He had told Aegon as they first boarded the ship. “These men have not seen women in ages. And you aunt is beautiful, not that it matters. One look at her and the men will be wild.”

So anywhere she went Dany was guarded, whether by Jon Connington or by Aegon with his short sword. It was not much, but it ached to taste the blood of any man who dare touch Daenerys.

They shared a cabin, Daenerys sleeping against the wall and Aegon on the outside of the small bunk; his sword always in reach should a sailor wander into the room.

He had once drawn his sword when someone entered their cabin before the sun had risen. Aegon had nearly cut the buttons of Jon’s shirt before the knight twisted the blade from his grasp and proceeded to give one of his infamous lectures on responsibility and maturity, all while Daenerys slept.

“How much longer before we reach Dorne?” asked Daenerys on their second month at sea.

Jon paused as he sharpened his blade with a thin black whetstone. “I do not know, child.” He said. “A month perhaps three.”

That was not enough for Aegon, who ached for dry land and feared krakens and sirens and fish women Septa Lemore had often told him of. He dare not voice his fears to Jon, who would lecture him again, or to Dany, who would think him less of a man for thinking such things.

At night while they slept, shivering and aching for more blankets, Aegon dreamed of Dorne.

He did not much care for marriage but he longed for a home. He had longed for such a thing for as long as he could remember. He remembered the house with the red door, as he and Dany occasionally spoke of, the house they had once occupied together.

He dreamed of warm sand and warm sun and company, someone to speak to besides Jon Connington and his aunt, not that he grew tired of her. He dreamed of beaches and having a room of his own and blankets enough to keep him warm when winter came.

But for now his home was wherever he lay, wherever he trekked, wherever he rode.


	35. Rickard Karstark

_Chapter Thirty-Five_

_Sansa Stark_

Rickard Karstark was much different than she remembered. His hair was loose and slate gray, his eyes dark and sad and hooded. His face was shallow and gaunt and slim, his arms like long vines, all sinew and little muscle.

But when he saw her his face lit up.

She embraced him tightly, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks and feeling the sharpness of his cheekbones beneath his loose skin. He smelled of wood and sweat and food she had not eaten in ages.

When she offered her condolences for his son Rickard only frowned but did not speak, quickly changing the subject to something happier.

He spoke of Robb and Catelyn and the Lannisters. He spoke of Eddard, telling Sansa stories she had never before heard. She listened with awe, as if she was a girl again, to the tales of her father as a warrior, as a knight, as a hero. Rickard told her tales of ferocity she had not thought her father possessed, of happiness, and of betrayal.

“I don’t think your mum ever forgave him.” he said. “Not when he returned with that babe in his arms. No the look on her face said it all.”

Sansa was silent. The mention of Jon Snow had made her ache in ways she had never known. She would have given just about anything for just a glimpse at him, to see how much of a man he had grown to be, how much of a hero Robb had wrote to her of him being.

But she said nothing on the subject, turning instead to listen to more of his tales.

Rickard had brought with him a hundred men, knights and cooks and foot soldiers alike, but his sons were hidden among them. Sansa greeted each of them in turn, smiling at the blushing boys and allowing them to kiss her hand.

It was clear there was a hole where Rickard’s son was. His eyes alone were the saddest Sansa had ever seen.

They supped together, Sansa introducing the Khal to Rickard Karstark. It was strange to see, her old life and her new life overlapping. Drogo had killed a boar and Rakharo four rabbits so there was food enough for them all.

Irri was infatuated with one of Rickard’s sons, teaching him Dothraki words and giggling as he struggled. Tyrion and Shae spoke to Rickard interestedly, asking for news of King’s Landing and Robb Stark.

It was so happy a night Sansa should have known something was amiss. Her senses had dwindled after leaving King’s Landing. She felt so safe among the Khalasar that she had not had to worry but now…

The first blow was an arrow to the chest. It punched through Sandor Clegane’s armor and sent him reeling. The second arrow caught Tyrion in the shoulder, just above his chest and he fell backwards, tumbling over his chair and falling with as much grace as a raging bull.

Drogo tore the table off its hinges in his rage, only leaving more space for an arrow to plunge into his chest, just left of Tyrion’s poultice.

Sansa screamed as Ser Jorah forced her down beneath a table, thanking all Seven Gods that he was wearing his armor. Sansa watched the carnage in terror, struck dumb with fear.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins among icy hot anger. She saw Jhiqui fall dead beside her, her throat slit, blood pouring down her front. Next was Irri, three arrows catching her in the chest all at once.

Shae clutched Sansa’s hand tightly, having pulled the knife from its holster on her thigh. “It’s okay, my lady.” She whispered, though her eyes betrayed her. They were wide and fearful, moving quickly back and forth around the room.

Sandor Clegane was roaring mad, taking down six of the Karstark men before he had even blinked. His sword sliced through skin and bone easily, cutting a man in two like Drogo had once cut a melon. He stood before Sansa’s table protectively and fully armored, none of the arrows caught him and none of the men charged him.

Sansa’s arms wrapped around her belly. She screamed when she saw an arrow protruding from Sandor’s neck, the only space where armor did not cover. He first fell to his knees, clutching the wound, trying to close it to no avail. His body was massive and made a massive noise when it fell, pinning Shae’s leg beneath plait and armor.

She was suddenly grabbed by the hair, Sansa screaming as she heard the crack of bone and the handmaiden’s scream. “Run!” Shae cried. “Run, Sansa!”

“My lady!” said a voice. A hand reached out for her and Sansa recognized Rickard, taking hold of his hand tightly. She could smell smoke and as she was pulled from beneath he table she could see that half the tent had already been engulfed, the flame crawling across to the other side.

Drogo lay on his back, his eyes wide and breathing shallow. “No!” Sansa screamed, jerking away from Rickard and walking to her husband. She grabbed his hand, trying to pull his massive body away but he would not budge.

Rickard had her around the waist and Drogo slipped away. “We must go now, my lady, or you will die.”

By the time they went through the main flap the tent was blazing. Thick plumes of smoke rose into the air and Sansa screamed loudly. “Rickard help!” she sobbed, pulling at his arm. The man watched the flamed burning, counting the bodies that had fallen. “We have to do something!”

“You cannot do anything, my lady.” He said. There was an edge to his voice that had not been present before.

His hand closed tighter around Sansa’s wrist. “What are you doing?” she demanded, his grip growing tight enough to crush her bones.

Suddenly there was a knife in his hands and before she could even scream it had plunged into her belly. Once, twice, three times she felt the blade slip in and out but there was no pain. Not yet. At first there was only shock.

She was too surprised to even cry out, grasping at Rickard’s collar as he held the bloody knife. “The Lannisters send their regards.” He said and plunged the knife down again. Then the pain came and everything was dark.


	36. The Journey

_Chapter Thirty-Six_

_Melisandre of Asshai_

Melisandre awoke with a start, gripping her chest and sitting straight up in her bed. The room was dark and she was sure the sun had not yet risen, the windowless room as cold as ice.

She rose and dressed quickly, wrapping a simple dressing robe around her shoulders and pulling on her crimson boots one by one. She moved to the door before stopping, her mouth falling open in shock.

Melisandre did not usually feel cold. She was not sure she had ever felt it before but now…

She wore several layers but still managed to feel the cold, gooseflesh pricking on her pale skin and raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She could feel every gust of wind and drop of snow that fell on her as she crossed the bridge to where Jon Snow was standing.

“Lord Commander.” She said. Her voice was rushed and unfamiliar, lacking the coolness and crispness it usually possessed.

Jon turned to her in surprise, his dark eyebrows rising as he caught a glimpse of her. “Lady Melisandre are you well?” he asked. His lips tightened as he saw her shivering, shrugging out of his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders.

“I am well.” She replied hurriedly. She felt the cold to her bones, to her very soul, and finally understood why the Night’s Watch always looked so miserable. “Lord Commander…” she began, lowering her voice as two brothers walked passed.

She pulled him closer to the edge of the wall where the wind was strong enough to blow away their voices before anybody could hear. “What is it?” he asked.

He looked so much older then he had when Melisandre had first seen him. As she looked upon him he seemed much more man than boy, even beneath several layers of black clothing she could see the hardness of muscle, his shoulders broad and strong. His eyes were dark and hooded, his lips pulled into a frown as he waited for her to speak.

“I saw Sansa.” She began.

“What?” he demanded, his hands gripping her shoulders. He was instantly on edge, thinking the very worst. “How?”

“In the fires.” She clarified. “Jon…”

“Is she well?” he asked, his voice spiking with fear. “Is she…did she…” he could not even speak the words.

Melisandre gazed up at him, shivering. “You must write to your brother immediately.” She said. “Rickard Karstark will die for what he has done.”

“What has he done?” Jon demanded as the two walked to Jon’s chambers.

“Your sister was with child.” She said. “Nearly eight moons swollen when he came. His men attacked hers and most of her men fell, though I could see no specific faces, only a glimpse,” she said. “Sansa was…Sansa was attacked.”

Jon felt a heave pulling at his lips. “Is she…”

“No.” said Melisandre firmly. “Her son gave his life so she could keep hers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rickard Karstark stabbed her four times in the belly. But the way the knife turned, each stab only reached Eddard instead of Sansa.”

“Eddard?” Jon repeated, sinking into his seat. His head fell into his hands. She was not surprised Sansa had chosen to pay tribute to his father with the name. But he felt sick to his stomach to think that for the second time in one life he had watched Eddard Stark die. 

Samwell Tarly opened the door and his pink lips opened in shock upon seeing them. “Come in, Sam.” Ordered Jon as he turned to leave.

“What is it, Lord Commander?” asked Tarly. His hands twisted in his shirt and he looked worried, thought that was not much of a change from his usual demeanor.

“I need a favor, Sam.” Said Jon. He was hunched over his desk, his quill dripping as he dipped it in his inkwell, large drops of black ink falling over the parchment.

“Anything.” Promised Sam. “Anything at all, Jon.”

Jon paused as he wrote, giving Samwell Tarly a small smile and allowed himself a moment to be thankful for having such a loyal friend as Sam. “You must deliver this letter.”

“To whom?” asked Sam. “Maester Aemon or Stannis?”

“No.” said Jon. Melisandre looked between them, her dark eyes watching all. “You must leave the Wall.”

**********

With his instructions and enough food to last him three moons Samwell Tarly departed the wall. Jon watched as his horse faded into the trees and eventually disappeared, a dark spot against the otherwise white landscape. Sam had the letter tucked into the inside pocket of his shirt, the smell of ink and salt filling his nose as he had rolled it up and tucked it away.

“I will return.” He had promised.

Jon gave him a warm embrace, patting him on the back. “I know you will, Sam. Be safe.”

When Sam had gone Melisandre turned back to Jon. She nodded firmly and a cold gust of wind blew back her hood, several strands of crimson hair blowing down from her braid. “It is time.” She said.

Jon nodded firmly and rose from his desk.

Stannis Baratheon was sitting before his map in his chambers, where Jon often found him. His supper plate was half eaten, the meat full of fat and gristle and the bread stale as if it had been in the cold for years. Jo knew he had not eaten it because he found it insulting. _Not fit for a King_ , thought Jon.

“Ah Jon.” Said he, turning to the Lord Commander. Melisandre had already entered the room, standing at the edge of the map and watching the two. “Melisandre told me of your sister.” He said. “Very sad.” But his voice did not convey any remorse.

He continued, “I will not pretend I am upset at the loss of the Khal. Another false King vying to take the throne from the rightful heir.” He sighed. “Your sister did much to incite him, so says my spy. It was because of her that he offered to cross the Narrow Sea.” He let out a forced laugh. “Another stupid girl, another stupid attempt at the Iron Throne.”

“Have you been drinking?” asked Melisandre, waking to him.

“I have.” He boasted. “What of it? Robert drank every day of his life.”

“And look what happened to him.” said Jon.

Stannis turned on him, drunkenly swaggering to him. “You swore your allegiance to me.”

“No.” said Jon, drawing Longclaw. “I swore my allegiance to Robb Stark.” The blade cut through the false King easily, his flesh soft as butter and his blood dark against the iron.

Melisandre watched as the body fell, her eyes hard. “For the nigh is dark and full of terrors.” She said with a small smile. She turned to Jon, “but we have just rid ourselves of one.”


	37. Fire

_Chapter Thirty-Seven_

_Tyrion Lannister_

The smell of burning flesh filled the air and the hair on the insides of his nose curled.

His vision was blurred and it became difficult to see as he struggled to sit upright. Tyrion was coming too, his face dark with flaking blood, a long cut running from forehead to lip, slicing across his face. There was an arrow protruding from his shoulder and the side of his body had gone lip, his shoulder too stiff to even more.

The pain made him heave, what little food remained in his stomach coming out over his boots and the sand beneath him. Slowly the events of the night before came back to him and he nearly screamed. A trickle of blood ran down from his temple where he had been struck with the butt of a sword and as he stood he fell down again, his hip jarring with the pain of the fall. 

Tyrion remained swimming in and out of consciousness, looking between the bodies that surrounded him until he found the one he was looking for. Shae lay on her back in the dirt, her arm bent at an awkward angle and a large cut running from her shoulder to her elbow, blood dried around her arm.

Tyrion moved slowly to Shae, each step a trial. The handmaiden did not move, her eyes closed and her mouth half filled with sand.

"Shae." cried the halfman. He took her in his arms, pressing kisses to her brow and cheeks. "Shae." he begged but she did not reply.

Thin fingers stroked his cheek and he let out a sigh of relief, tears falling from his eyes. "My lion." she whispered. Her voice was gruff and hoarse, her lips cracked from want of water. “Where is Sansa?”

Tyrion felt foolish for nothing having thought of it before. In the distance he saw movement as people began to rise.

Most of the _Khalasar_ was dead, their bodies bloody and filled with wounds and bruises. He heard crying and sobbing and screams as women cried over their husbands or children and men shouted words of rage, their weapons in hand.

Rakharo was covered in blood and dirt from head to toe, his arakh in his hand and a look of fury on his face. “Where is the Khaleesi?” he demanded of Tyrion. He moved off into the distance and Tyrion followed after him, each step so great a pain that he almost purged again.

Ser Jorah struggled to stay standing. The wound on his chest long ago had closed, the dark blood crusted and sore as he took a step forward. His fingertips ached for his sword just a few feet from him but the pain was too great.

Shae walked just ahead of Tyrion, her broken arm clutched tightly to her chest. "Gods." she whispered, her voice high with surprise. She stopped walking so suddenly that he nearly walked into her.

“What is it?” Tyrion demanded, unable to see over the bodies that were struggling to see. Many people watched in awe, Dothraki words and prayers cast into the air. Shae’s dark eyes were as wide as her lips.

“Gods.” Repeated Ser Jorah, dropping to his knees suddenly. As he moved Tyrion was finally able to see what the fuss was about and he nearly fainted, the last of the sickness in his stomach coming up.

After Ser Jorah dropped to his knees, Shae followed, Rakharo following their lead and so on and so forth until twenty thousand Dothraki warriors were bowing, some saying prayers into the air, some gasping and screaming in terror.

Tyrion fell to his knees, watching a small black dragon curling in Sansa's arms, another dark dragon walking from her left shoulder to her right, and yet another curling around her thigh, its tail razor sharp as it moved like a vine down the length of her leg.

The Khaleesi stood several minutes in contemplation and silence, her eyes watching, but not seeing, the group that was collecting before her. Blood had dried around stomach, running down her legs and flaking off in the dry wind. The warm sun beat down on her bare shoulders, her skin pale and without blemish.

“Where is Eddard?” whispered Shae, grief wracking her body. “Where is the Khal?”

Her question was answered almost immediately when Sansa rose from the place she had been crouching. Khal Drogo had been burned away in the flames and as Shae squinted she could see something small clutched in his arms.

She nearly vomited when she realized it was Eddard, the babe just a bit larger than her fist.

Drogo’s body was limp and his arakh just out of his reach and it was clear he lay where he had fallen. Sansa was expressionless, her face dirty with ash and dirt and blood. She did not seem to be seeing anything.

Tyrion noticed there was another body beside Drogo’s. Half melted flesh dripped off the bones and by the figures dress the youngest Lannister realized it was a woman’s body. “Who is that?” asked he.

“The Maegi.” Answered Rakharo. His voice was uneven and dark with rage that left his body shaking. “She killed the Khal.”

“No.” Tyrion shook his head in disbelief. “No. Rickard Karstark killed the Khal.” That was the last thing he remembered before a downward blow from a sword hilt had knocked him unconscious.

“The Maegi stabbed his heart with her knife.” Rakharo said, spitting with anger. “She killed him because he burned her city.”

Sansa moaned in pain, clutching her stomach. Her wounds had healed quickly, more quickly than Tyrion had ever seen. There were only four pock marks on her belly to show that she had even been hurt.

"She was dead." said Jorah Mormont in awe. It was the first time he had spoken; his voice gruff and harsh and he brushed his hair from his face, hoping for a clearer view.

"No." said Tyrion, watching as Sansa rose from the extinguished fire. Her clothes had been burned away but Tyrion did not even look, too amazed by the three dragons to be distracted by her bare skin.

Sansa watched them, her skin marred with ash and soot and dirt. But she did not have any burns, not even a mark to show that she had touched the fire. "No.” Tyrion whispered. “Fire cannot kill a dragon."


	38. Olenna

_Chapter Thirty-Eight_

Olenna Tyrell

Dorne was quite beautiful. Despite the great heat and abundance of sun Olenna still found it to be lovely. The people she had come across were kind and gentle folk, caring little about dress and more about the touch of a woman or the smell of a rose.

She wished her mind was so clear as that, as to only pay attention to simple things. But alas, she was who she was and a fresh pomegranate and a bit of sun would not change that.

She arrived early in the morning, dressed plainly, her fine gown discarded for a simple lavender dress, her hair and neck covered in a thin veil as to not attract attention. _But who would ever pay attention to an old woman_ , she thought, _especially when there are such pretty things running around_.

 The castle at Sunspear was very fine indeed. Made of white marble it practically shone in the light, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight.

Oberyn Martell, Lord of Sunspear, greeted her. He was very handsome indeed and Olenna marked that the rumors were not false. His hair was fine and dark, his eyes light as marbles and kind, offering her a hand and a bow.

“My lady.” He said.

“My lord.” She replied. Olenna thought that if she were younger Oberyn would be the exact kind of man who would have made her heart beat quicken and her face redden.

“Have you a well trip?” he asked, walking arm in arm with her as they made their way to the Water Gardens.

“Indeed.” She said. “A month free of the Lannisters is a good month spent.”

Oberyn laughed, a genuine, fine laugh. “Yes, I agree.” Said he. “I believe you wrote of news.”

“Ah yes.” She said, pleasantries and teasing over. “I will wait until we meet with Doran to discuss it. I am an old woman; I do so easily get winded. No need to tell the story more than once.”

“I have always loved stories.” Said Oberyn with a teasing cluck of his tongue. “But I suppose I will have to wait.”

They dined on fresh roast pig with apples and pears and sweet cream. Olenna watched Oberyn eat a pomegranate, wondering how her granddaughter might fare under his dark gaze as he licked the juice from his soft lips. The girl would be smitten, Olenna could practically guarantee it.

When they finally reached the Prince of Dorne, Olenna smiled and curtsied like a proper lady and took a seat when it was offered. Doran was everything she had expected: old, dry, and gaunt. Blankets covered his legs so she would not be able to tell the level of sickness he had reached. He was kind enough, but short and stern, as so many kings seemed to be nowadays. “Why have you come?” asked he.

“Be kind Doran.” Said Oberyn. “She has made a long journey just to see us.”

Olenna counted, unafraid. “I have come to discuss a proposed betrothal.”

The brothers exchanged a look and Olenna wondered what kind of boy Doran was when he was younger. “Between?” asked Doran thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hands.

“My granddaughter and your brother.” She said.

Oberyn raised a thick eyebrow, his dark eyes watching her. “The Lady Margaery is thrice married is she not? Her husbands seem to have met bad luck.”

“Twice married.” Olenna corrected, taking a sip of her cool tea. “One betrothed. Yet still a maiden.”

“Ah yes. Her first husband had more interest in the other Tyrell did he not?” asked Oberyn with a small laugh. “And the second knives and weapons and the third kittens.”

“And hopefully the fourth will have an interest in fast talking.” She said pointedly and Oberyn fell silent.

“Unfortunately, my brother is already betrothed to another.” Said Doran.

“Oh?” asked Olenna Tyrell. This she did not know. “To whom?" 

Neither brother answered, both remaining stony faced and avoiding her eye. “Forging alliances are we?” she asked, as it was her turn to laugh. “Hopefully against the Lannisters. Though if so you should have married Sansa Stark.”

“She is already married.” Said Oberyn, as if the woman did not know this.

“Married no longer.” Olenna said sadly. “With child no longer.”

Doran furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Rickard Karstark turned on the girl. Killed nearly every man in the Khalasar, many women and children. Including the Khal.”

“And her child?” asked Oberyn. He was struck with flashbacks of Elia.

Olenna frowned, even saying the words made a pain grow in her chest like fire. The Stark girl had always been kind, sweet, and full of life, her passion hidden though Olenna had always seen it. To think of such a tragedy befalling her was beyond upsetting. “Cut out of her.” she said. The words felt strange in her mouth, sharp and uneven.

Both brothers remained silent. “That is a great pity.” Said Doran, always composed.

Oberyn looked sick. “On Lannister orders?” he whispered, his voice full of pain.

“Yes.” Said Olenna.

His hands turned to fists. He thought of Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys and was filled so thoroughly with anger that he felt sick. “Robb Stark.” He said finally.

“What?” asked Olenna and Doran in unison.

Oberyn continued, his thoughts turning. “Marry Margaery to Robb Stark. Then an alliance will truly be formed.”

“But Robb does not know the truth. Not of his own sister and not of Margaery.” Said Olenna. Oberyn gave her a confused look. “You spoke of it yourself did you not?”

“Spoke of what?” asked the Prince of Dorne.

Olenna smiled knowingly. “If Aegon can survive why couldn’t Rhaenys?”


	39. The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a great holiday. Sorry I haven't updated in a few days, I've been quite busy with cooking and visiting with family. Enjoy :)

_Chapter Thirty-Nine_

Sansa Stark

Sansa Stark was sweating and covered in dirt and sand, her shoulders shaking so violently that she could barely hold the shovel she clasped in her hands. “Do you want to take a rest, my lady?” asked Ser Jorah but Sansa did not answer.

She had not spoken in six days, had not eaten in four, had not slept in three. The Khaleesi concentrated only on burying the bodies of her Khalasar, the men and women who had fallen protecting her, using bits of their clothing or their weapons to mark their graves.

Sansa’s dragons, still a marvel to Tyrion, were the only ones Sansa allowed close to her. While she slept they stayed at her side, growling and snapping at any one who entered the tent, though they had soon grown accustomed to Shae and Tyrion, the two often checking on the girl throughout the night.

For the first two nights Tyrion was afraid she would do something dangerous to herself. He remembered when Sansa had first been locked away in King’s Landing and had refused to eat for nearly two moons, wasting away to little more than skin and bones.

He often made excuses to check on her, asking if she had seen Shae or repeatedly asking if her hands needed attention.

Sansa’s hands bled, large blisters having formed on their hands that burst each morning she picked up her shovel and once again began digging.

The cut that divided Tyrion’s face was long and itched as thought it had been filled with itching powder. Tyrion grimaced as he remembered once when Cersei had paid a maid to wash his sheets in the stuff and he had spent three weeks with welts and hives all over his body.

“You almost lost your nose.” Said Shae, who insisted on shoveling even thought one of her arms was in a crude sling. Her face was pale and her eyes bloodshot, large purple marks beneath each eye. “My lion.” She cooed and kissed him softly on the tip of his nose.

Sansa had buried Irri and Jhiqui personally, kneeling before their graves and saying a few words about them before laying small blue flowers atop the fresh packed dirt.

The last to be buried was Khal Drogo. While Sansa slept, brought under by a few drops of milk of the poppy Tyrion had mixed into her wine, Tyrion and Ser Jorah had attended to the body.

Tyrion mended the large wound on his chest with a needle and thread, closing the jagged cut so Sansa would not have to see it. Jorah wiped away the crusted blood from his chest and pressed his eyelids closed, guiding them with his fingertips as softly as he could manage.

When night fell Sansa stood before the pyre she had built, her lips red and slightly swollen, her eyes welling with tears. Her dragons stood behind her, watching the girl keenly, as if they could understand her. Tyrion did not know whether or not they did but it would not surprise him. He had seen stranger.

Drogo laid upon a stack of wood, his arakh in his arms and his hair freshly braided by Sansa, each of the hundred bells he wore carefully wrapped in. He looked a new man, his skin wiped free of dirt and grime and ash and blood, his hair long and dark, his arms and chest freshly painted with bright blue streaks.

Shae had dressed Sansa in a Westerosi dress, a short-sleeved gown made of fine, spun silk, her golden belt cinching her small waist. She resembled Cersei Lannister, only in beauty not in demeanor. 

 Most of the remaining Khalasar perished from the severity of their wounds before a week had passed and they gathered before her and the body of their Khal, Sansa’s hand holding a burning torch that spit sparks at her arms, though she did not flinch as the fire sizzled against her skin.

In her other arm she held a bundle of fabric, which Tyrion soon realized was Eddard, thought the baby was so tightly wrapped he could not discern head from foot.

Sansa spoke in a clear voice, thought the tone behind it sent shivers down Tyrion’s spine. “I see the faces of slaves, I free you. Take off your collars, go if you wish, no one will stop you.” Her voice was gruff and raw from disuse, though it was clear she had been crying.

A few men and woman hobbled away into the dessert. _Most likely walking to their deaths_ , thought Tyrion.

She continued, unfazed by the departures of her people. Tyrion wondered if she was truly seeing any of them, her violet eyes wide but glassy, her arms tightening around Eddard. “But if you stay, it will be as brothers and sisters, as husbands and wives.” She continued. “Ser Jorah bring him forward.”

Tyrion turned at the waist and craned his neck to see where the exiled knight was standing. Ser Jorah bowed to the Khaleesi and ducked into a tent, slightly limping from the injury on his leg.

When he reappeared he brought with him a man, bound by the hands and feet, unable to take more than two steps without assistance. He had been beaten bloody, Tyrion unable to tell his skin color beneath the layers and layers of blood.

Through the blood the halfman could see he wore silver armor and his eyes widened. “Karstark?” he asked, his voice hopeful. Shae squeezed his hand.

“One of his son’s.” corrected Ser Jorah. Karstark was tightly bound to the pyre beside the body of Khal Drogo, using what little strength he had left to struggle and fight in Jorah’s arms, spitting at the night.

“I am Sansa of House Stark.” Her voice broke through, addressing them all. “The blood of the north. The blood of Winterfell. I swear to you that those who would harm you…who have harmed you.” She corrected. “Will die screaming.”

Tyrion’s chest ached for her, her voice so cold it reminded him of the north. He wondered if she would ever know a life without sadness.

“You will not hear me scream.” Spat the northern boy and Jorah moved to strike him but, to all of their surprise, Sansa caught his arm.

“It is not your screams I want.” She said, her face blank and even though her red rimmed eyes and pink nose, was hauntingly beautiful. “Only your life.” She brought the torch to the pyre and slowly but surely the wood was eaten away by fire.

Sansa held Eddard tightly, rocking him lightly in her thin arms. “My son.” She said, pressing her lips to his brow. As the blanket moved Tyrion saw the baby had her skin color, his tiny lips pale blue.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and her body was taken over by sobs. Tyrion walked forward and put an arm on her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through her gown. “My boy.” She kissed his fingers one by one.

The khaleesi took a shaky breath, holding Eddard at arms length and giving him one last look, her voice haunting. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east...when the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves…” she took an uneven step forward and placed her son in the fire.

Sansa and her dragons shared a terrible scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was a bit long, I did not want to shorten it. Hope you liked it and, as always, please leave your comments below x


	40. The Meeting

_Chapter Forty_

_Oberyn Martell_

Daenerys Targaryen was presented simply, jumping down from the saddle of her white horse, her legs shaking from weakness. She wore a light blue gown; a golden belt cinching her waist and her silver hair was intricately braided, the long plait lying over her shoulder.

At her side stood Aegon Targaryen wearing a matching blue tunic, a three-headed dragon sewn into the shirt, the red string standing out against the white of his skin. Both looked doe eyed and afraid, standing back while Jon Connington spoke to Doran, his face screwed up in conversation.

Oberyn walked forward. Both Targaryen’s watched him, their violet eyes wide and uncertain. He offered a hand to Daenerys, the girl hesitantly taking it, unfolding her hands from where they had gripped her skirt.

“Oberyn Martell.” He introduced, bowing.

“Daenerys Targaryen.” She replied. Her voice was soft as silk and quiet, barely above a whisper. Aegon nudged her in the side and she flushed, thought the look was more than endearing to Oberyn, the pink spreading in her cheeks like dye staining fabric. “Do I please you?” she asked.

The Lord of Dorne brushed a hand under her chin. “It is not your job to please me.” he said. She blinked at him, her violet eyes searching his face. “But yes. I am very happy you have finally arrived.” He offered her his arm. “I’ll take you to your chambers.”

After a squeeze of Aegon’s hand and a curtsy to Doran and Jon Connington, Daenerys moved to walk at Oberyn’s side, her boots softly scraping against the stone. It was clear she was exhausted, her eyes drooping and her face white as a sheet.

Every step looked like a trial, her legs shaking with fatigue and every few steps her knees would give way beneath her and without another thought Oberyn scooped her into his arms, her hands gripping the front of his tunic uncertainly.

They were quiet for a long while until she spoke. "It's beautiful." Daenerys said, staring in awe at the adorned halls and marble floors. "I have never seen anything like it."

"I've been here all my life and I am still amazed by it." he said. His hand brushed against hers as he adjusted her in his arms and a jolt of warmth ran through her. "Do you swim?" he asked as they stared down at the Water Gardens.

"No." she said, flustered. "I mean I do not know how to swim."

To her surprise the Prince smiled. "I will teach you." he said. "We can go swimming anytime you desire."

 _Anytime I desire_ , she thought.

It was a foreign concept to her. For most of her life she had been told what to do on ever occasion: what to wear, when to dress, where to sit and stand, when to speak, what to say. "I should like to go." she said after a moment.

Oberyn turned to her. His lips curled into a smile and Dany blushed again. He took her hand. His fingers were rough and callused but Dany liked them. They were larger than hers and darker as well, gold where her skin was cream. "Daenerys-"

"Dany." she corrected quickly. "Sorry, I did not mean to interrupt. I-"

He squeezed, his hand slightly tightening against her thigh. "Dany." the word was soft on his lips, sweet as sugar syrup and rounded by his accent. "We are to be husband and wife." She waited for him to continue, hanging in his arms like a doll. "Husbands and wives need not placate each other. We need not waste our time with pleasantries. Your words are precious to me, I do not want you to waste them."

She could only nod. In the hour she had known Oberyn he had been finder to her than anyone she had ever known, besides her nephew. “You must be tired.” He said passively, as if he had not spoken before.

“Yes, my lord.” Dany whispered, biting the bottom of her lip. Oberyn thought she was perhaps the most innocent creature he had ever seen and she probably did not know how her white teeth biting down upon her pink lips drove him mad with temptation.

“You can speak freely with me.” he said to her. “I want you to speak your mind, at all times.” He said. “You are safe here. I will protect you.”

“I am very tired.” She said after a few moments. Her arms encircled his neck, feeling the skin warm beneath her fingers, her thumb accidently brushing the stubble that crawled up his jaw. The Targaryen girl was lighter than he had anticipated, probably half starved from months in the desert and at sea. “The journey was long and arduous.”

“I’m sure.” He said, turning and walking down another hall. The servants watched them curiously but said nothing, focusing on their tasks instead, their eyes pointedly avoiding the gaze of Daenerys. “You will be able to rest for as long as you want.”

They arrived at a large chamber, Oberyn kicking the door open with his foot. “Are these your chambers?” she asked. Her violet eyes watched him.

The room was simply decorated yet as striking as the Dornishman himself. The walls were golden, a few portraits of people Dany did not know hanging from golden nails or tacks. The closet was large, certainly large enough to house he and Dany and most likely Aegon as well.

They stood in the doorway. “Yes.” He answered.

“I do not want to bother you.” She whispered, biting her lip again.

Something stirred in him as he set her in the chair he had placed beside his desk. Daenerys ran her fingers over the mahogany, thinking she had never seen anything so fine before in her life. “It will not be a bother.” He said with a smile. “You are to be my wife.”

“Wife.” She repeated under her breath. Her violet eyes crossed the room to look at the bed, taking in the sight of the pillows the maids had organized over the feather bed.

He could see the circles beneath her eyes, the dark creases that proved she had not slept properly in weeks. _Most likely months_ , he thought.

He took her hand and led her to the bed, her feet as heavy as cement as thoughts flashed through her mind. Oberyn could read her easily. She thought he was attempting to take her maidenhood, to force himself upon her, to be her husband physically. “No.” he said. “I only want you to sleep. You need it.” he hoped he did not sound insulting. 

Daenerys still looked skeptical but did not object, sitting on the edge of her bed. Oberyn kneeled, removing her muddy boots one by one. His hands were large and callused, though they felt smooth as butter against her skin. 

The only man Daenerys had ever been in such close quarters with was Jon Connington. But her knight seemed to have little interest in her and Aegon once told her that the only reason he paid them any mind was because of his affections for her brother.

Where Jon was squat and pale and messy Oberyn Martell was tall and olive skinned and neat. His hair was short and dark, his beard neatly trimmed and often combed, and his clothes were made of the finest material Dany had ever seen, soft as kitten fur against her fingers.

He had a kind demeanor about him, his smile gentle and touching and his hand soft but callused as he removed her left boot.

Dany had often dreamed of a man like him.

In Pentos all the men were artificial and false but their skin was olive colored and their eyes shaped like almonds. She dreamed of a man with dark hair and dark eyes, taller than she and taller than Jon, tall enough that she had to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss him.

But she had never been kissed before. Not really. Only a few times when Viserys had forced himself upon her, his thin lips squishing against hers in the darkness. She had always pushed him away as his tongue touched hers. "Do not anger the dragon." Viserys had always warned her.

But Viserys was not the only dragon.

Aegon and Dany had spoken about Dorne often, dreaming about the seas and oceans and the golden sun. It was less rigid there than in the rest of Westeros. "Men and women are not shamed for being bastards." Aegon once told her. "They are born of passion, that's what the Dornish say."

Viserys had told her than Dornishmen were passionate lovers and at first that had scared her but now the thought was only exhilarating. As Oberyn removed her stockings she could see the muscles rolling beneath his tunic and the dark hairs poking out from his low collar.

Daenerys felt a warmth spreading through her like fire as Oberyn’s long fingers brushed against her thigh as the buckle of her stockings snapped, the Prince dragging down the fabric knowledgeably.

She broke the silence. "I am glad that it is you I am to marry." she said. He looked up at her in surprise. "I could easily have been betrothed to a Lannister or a Stark."

"The Starks are not bad people." said Oberyn, setting her stockings on the bedside table. "Ned Stark is a good man, a very good man. But the Lannisters..." his eyes darkened.

"The Usurpers." she corrected out of instinct. Oberyn was quiet for a long moment and Dany feared she had gone too far. "I'm sorry I did not mean-"

"No." said Oberyn with a crooked grin. "I like when you are honest." he said. "The dragons were always honest."

"Did you know my brother?" she asked, her voice piquing with hope. Any news of her family was welcome news to her. She asked every person she came upon, having practically bled Jon dry of information.

"Rhaegar? Yes, I knew him." he said. "He was married to my sister before...before..."

His voice had darkened and Dany put a hand on his shoulder as she often did to Aegon when he was upset. "The Lannisters will pay for what they have done." she said. There was an edge to her voice Oberyn had not heard before and it exhilarated him.

He leaned forward as if he were about to kiss her and her stomach tightened in the same moment as his chest. He felt like a boy again, but at the last second raised his lips to her forehead, feeling warmth run through him as his lips brushed her soft skin. Oberyn spoke, "Yes, my darling. They will."


	41. Oberyn's Gift

_Chapter Forty-One_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

Daenerys had been sleeping for three days. She rose only a few times to eat or to use the chamber pot, but each time she had returned to the bed without a second thought. Oberyn Martell’s bed was the softest mattress she had ever slept upon and he had more pillows than she had ever seen.

There were twenty of them, she had counted, but he used only three of them. The rest were just for decoration.  The thought was foreign to her.

She awoke once in the night to find Oberyn in a chair by the window. “I’m sorry.” She said. “I don’t mean to take up your bed.” Her voice was groggy and tired from lack of sleep; thought the dark circles under her eyes had significantly lessened.

“No.” he said, staring up at the stars. “Really it’s no intrusion. I don’t sleep much.”

“Why not?” asked she.

He walked to her bedside and sat down. Daenerys was suddenly aware of the fact that she was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, the points of her nipples easily showing through the thin fabric. But she found she did not care. No, it was cold and she was a woman and women have nipples.

Certainly Oberyn knew this. From what she had heard Oberyn knew everything just about everything about a woman’s body.

She shivered as the blankets fell away, the cool Dornish air unfamiliar to her. But Oberyn’s eyes warmed her as his deep dark eyes ran down the length of her body. “Nightmares.” He answered.

“I have them too.” He raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had not expected this of her. Perhaps she was more than just the naïve girl Doran had written her off as.

“What do you dream of?” Oberyn asked, kicking off his boots and swinging his legs onto the bed. He settled back against the pillows, thought his body was above the sheets. He was sure she was not ready to be below the sheets with him yet.

She was quiet for a long moment, her brows furrowing. “I dream of home. But a home I have not known. The castle is red and it is surrounded by water. The people are poor and angry.”

He pondered the thought. “King’s Landing.” He said. He had often heard that the Targaryen’s had prophetic dreams. But he had also heard that the Targaryen’s had scales beneath their cloths and fangs in their mouths. “Perhaps you dream what your brother has seen.”

“I also dream of dragons.” She continued. The words hung in the air for a moment. Oberyn’s chest tightened and he thought of writing to Tyrion. The youngest Lannister had not sent him word in months. Not since the marriage of the Stark girl to the Dothraki Khal.  

“The dragons are all dead, my darling.” The way he said the word made her shiver. She looked sad at the thought, her violet eyes flashing. He rose quickly, sitting bolt upright in the bed. “I had planned to save these for a present. Once you are my wife, but I think now is as good a time as any.”

He shuffled around in his closet for a bit before coming up with a small mahogany box that he laid before her on the bed. Daenerys looked between he and the box, raising a silver eyebrow. “Go on.” He urged, dragging his eyes away from her exposed skin.

He wondered why he felt so nervous. It was as if he was a schoolboy again, following dumbly after beautiful girls. But Daenerys was different than any woman in Dorne. She was soft where they were hard, pale where they were golden, blonde where most of the women were dark haired.

She flipped open the top of the box and her eyes flashed, her mouth falling open. “Oberyn…” she whispered. The way she said his name was like a sigh, her tongue rolling off the letters easily. “These must have been expensive. I…I don’t have anything for you that compares.”

“It is my pleasure to spoil you.” Said Oberyn, his thickly accented voice making her feel once again warm. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, bony beneath his lips, and vowed to find out what her favorite foods were and feed her nothing but them.

“Thank you.” She said but her mind was swarmed with the memories of her dream. _The baby. She and Aegon and the baby_.

Dany did not speak again, too shocked by what was before her. She counted two, all the same size though they were different colors. She lifted one of the eggs in her hand, feeling the rough edges of the dragon’s egg.


	42. Two Letters

_Chapter Forty-Two_

Catelyn Stark

Catelyn cried for nearly two days when she received the letter from Tyrion. It may have been his hand but it was Sansa’s words. The ink was smudged and some words were crossed out and rewritten.

Robb had smashed a flagon of wine against the wall, cutting his hand in the process. But in his state of fury he did not even notice the trail of blood running down his palm and disappearing into his shirtsleeve.

“I’ll kill them all.” He vowed. “I’ll kill them all and give her their heads in celebration.” He cried as Jeyne bandaged his hand. The rest of the afternoon consisted of tears, broken glass, and repeated trips to the Godswood.

“My sister.” Robb cried, banging his fists bloody against the bark of the Godswood. “My sister.”

He tried to remember Sansa as a young maiden, playing Knights and Maidens with he and Jon but the memory had slipped away. Now he could only see her as the letter told. Damaged, bloody, heart broken, childless. “Eddard.” He whispered. “Another Eddard taken from us by the Lannisters.”

Chunks of flesh stuck to the tree bark as he pounded his hands against it. “Joffrey is dead.” Said Catelyn, rubbing his shoulders. “We can take solace in that.”

“Solace?” he repeated. “That little bastard may be dead but the master of puppets is still alive and he pulls the strings on everybody in King’s Landing. While he lives, we will continue to feel misery. Continue to have the things we love taken from us.”

“My lord?” said a deep voice. Both Starks turned to find Roose Bolton standing at attention, a square of parchment in his hand. “Another letter has arrived.”

“From Sansa?” asked Catelyn, running to meet him. She nearly tripped on her skirts in her haste, snatching the letter from his hand and then apologizing for her rudeness.

“From the Wall.” Lord Bolton corrected.

Catelyn felt a knife of pain go through her. “What news of Jon?” she demanded. Her son. _Jon Stark, a name he had never known_. “Is all well?”

Roose nodded. “Stannis Baratheon is dead. Half his army has fled; Jon writes that most plan to come to our aid. A few have gone to Lannisters, which is to be expected. But many have stayed at the Wall, to his surprise and ours.” He said with a deepening frown. “The lady Melisandre most like has cast a spell over them.”

“A spell?” repeated Robb. “Most like she has seduced them with tricks and potions but nothing more. If they stay it is because they believe in the Lord of Light.”

“And does Jon believe in this Lord of Light?” asked Catelyn. He had been raised to know the Faith of the Seven and had always been loyal to them. The thought of him being spirited away by the Red Woman and her lies made her frown.

“No.” said Robb, reading the letter. “But he writes here-“ he pointed at the bottom of the page where a few lines of print were written. The letters were so small Catelyn strained her neck trying to see.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I could not read it.” said Roose.

“No need to apologize, my lord.” Said Robb. “It’s written in code.” He smiled slightly at the memory and for just a moment his face was flooded with happiness. “Sansa, Jon, and I made it up when we were children so Old Nan would not know what we were saying.”

“What does it say?”

Some of the letters were upside down, others sideways, some of the script in foreign tongues.

Robb’s dark brows furrowed as he struggled to read the tiny script. “’It was Stannis Baratheon’s plan to take everything that is dear to me away. He planned to turn his army against you and destroy you in battle at the Trident. I believed he anticipated coming after Sansa next. And that is why he is no longer with us.”

“Jon killed Stannis?” asked Catelyn. It was hard to believe. Her son had always been collected and cool. But he was no longer just her son. He was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch now. He was a man grown. He no longer needed her approval to make decisions of such magnitude.

“And for that we should thank him.” said Roose Bolton. “Stannis’ army can do no more harm now that he is not there to lead them.”

“It does not surprise me that he had anticipated killing Sansa.” Said Robb. “If anything were to happen to me Sansa is the next in line to take the North. That is why the Lannisters kept her under such tight reins. That is why the Khal had such great numbers. No doubt that is why Tywin Lannister sent Rickard Karstark.” He spat the words. “To kill her.”

“It is a wonder she did not perish.” Said Roose. “Tyrion writes that she was stabbed multiple times before being thrown into the fire.” He said.

Catelyn froze, feeling her blood run cold as ice. “My Lord Bolton.” She began. Both men turned to look at her. “If you will excuse us for a moment there is something I must tell my son.”

Robb raised an eyebrow.


	43. Mercy

_Chapter Forty-Three_

_Sandor Clegane_

He was a fool. A coward and a fool and he deserved any cruel fate the Gods could give him.

The wounds on his chest had long ago festered, angry red lines running from each of the three gashes that had been cut. He could no longer ride, every jolt of the horse between his legs sending spasms of pain through him. He could no longer walk, too tired, too thirsty, too hungry to walk.

He did not know where he was. The desert was too wide and his legs were too tired and his eyes kept closing. No matter how long he walked the desert never seemed to end.

His sword felt as heavy as stone on his belt but he had long ago given up the idea of leaving it behind. If he no longer had a sword, he no longer was a knight. And if he was no longer a knight, he was no longer a man.

But what kind of knight was he anyway. He had left Sansa Stark to die. He had left the imp and his whore to die. He had left Sansa’s babe to die.

The fires had been so great, so vast, so terrifying. He could still remember them. Every direction he had gone there was fire. Every way he turned there was only fire. All the tents, all the trees, half the people, all destroyed by the fire.

The guilt inside him threatened to eat him alive. He had killed every man that had come close to Sansa but the fires…

He could not get close to her. She was standing to close to the fire.

And he ran. Like a coward and a fool and a green boy he had ran, turning back just in time to see a knife ran through Sansa Stark. His little bird. The pretty thing he had been tasked to protect. The Khaleesi. Her body kicked back into the fire, enveloped by the flames.

More than anything he wanted to reach into the flames and pull her out before her pretty white flesh looked like his. He had even taken a step closer. But the fire…

His eyes were too heavy to keep them open. When he opened his eyes again there was a figure before him. A boy. A boy with a sword. It only took a moment to realize the sword was pointed at him.

Sandor frowned. “Just do it.” he muttered. His lips were cracked half a hundred times and his voice came out gruff and frog like. It felt like his tongue had been dipped in salt. “Just kill me.”

The boy made no move. “Do it!” Sandor screamed. “It would be mercy.” Still the boy did not move. “Please.” A tear ran down his cheek. He did not know he had any more liquid in his body. “Do I have to beg you?”

The boy stared at him through deep brown eyes. Finally he reached forward and took the pouch from Sandor’s belt, the gold clinking as it moved. “Kill me!” Sandor screamed, as loud as he could. “Mercy.”

The boy looked down at him. “There’s no mercy for the wicked.” He said.

And there wasn’t.


	44. The Wedding of Arianne Martell and Aegon VI Targaryen

_Chapter Forty-Four_

_Aegon VI Targaryen_

His and Arianne’s wedding came first, as she was next in line for the throne.

Daenerys had entered his chambers early in the morning, before half the castle had risen and had helped him to get dressed. Doran had gifted him clothes in the Dornish fashion, high collars, lots of buttons, bright colors.

At first he had nothing but dislike for the clothes and the customs but after seeing Arianne in a dress of sheer silk and gold he thought perhaps he had judged too soon.

The hall they were to be married in was a greater thing than Aegon had ever seen. The ceiling was high and decorated with hand painted frescoes, the windows were made of colored stained glass, and the rug beneath his feet depicted scenes of great victory for the Martell’s.

In the front row the Prince of Dorne was seated, beside him his brother and Daenerys. The two looked far less uncomfortable than Aegon would have thought, Oberyn’s leg touching Dany’s softly. They wore matching colors as was customary in Dorne, both wearing gold and blue, the colors looking lovely against the pallor of Dany’s skin.

She had offered to walk him down the aisle and he had declined, but as he walked down the long aisle he felt nothing but fear. Every eye was on him, mouths moving in whispers, judging him, commenting on his clothing or stature. He blushed so hotly he was sure he matched the red carpet beneath his feet.

Without another word Dany rose to her feet and came to stand at his side, her arm entwined with his. A murmur ran through the crowd and before Aegon could blink, on his other side was Dany’s betrothed. Oberyn was far taller than he, far more muscular, and far more sensuous, but Aegon only felt happy to have him at his side.

Dany’s dress was almost sheer as well, the skirt long and graceful, blowing in the wind that came in from the open windows. She squeezed his arm softly. “My Aegon.” She said as they reached the top of the aisle. She kissed his cheek softly. “My dragon.” She whispered in a voice nobody but he could hear.

And so the two returned to their seats arm in arm as the doors once again opened and Arianne entered the room. The people stood, their necks craning to see, their mouths opening in shock and awe.

She was dressed no different than how Aegon had seen before, much like Dany, though her body was rounder and olive skinner. Her hips swayed as she walked and her long black hair ran down her shoulders loosely, done in no particular style. Her golden crown matched her golden dress, the fabric thin enough to see right through it when she stepped into the light.

There was no happiness on her face, she did not even try to hide it as she stood beside him. She did not even look at him until it was time to seal their marriage. Her lips were warm and his were thin and she pulled away quickly, to his embarrassment.

The feast was just that: a feast.

Aegon was seated at the high table besides his wife, the Lords of Dorne, their daughters, and Dany. She smiled fondly at him, her cheeks pink with merriment and her eyes dancing with pride.

“It has been so long we have traveled to be here.” She had said to Aegon when the sun was rising. Her nimble fingers did up the buttons on his tunic. “We have rode tirelessly. And now you are to be married to the most beautiful woman in Dorne.”

“Second.” He corrected. She gave him a quizzical look. “Second most beautiful woman in Dorne now that you are here.”

She had opened er mouth to respond when Oberyn entered the room carrying a pair of golden boots and a silver belt, early wedding gifts.

They ate and danced and chatted, the musicians playing a lively tune, Arianne spending much of the evening on the dance floor in the arms of one of her knights. Doran clucked his tongue in distaste but that did not deter her, the Princess twirling and dipping and laughing in the arms of Arys Oakheart.

It was no surprise to Oberyn that there was little love between the two. He had seen the way Aegon had looked at Daenerys. Hell, he had seen the way half the men in Dorne had looked at Daenerys. He knew it would be hard to love another when the boy had so passionately fallen for another.

Aegon and Arianne were as opposite as two people could get, the only thing they had in common being the first letter of their names. When it came time for their first dance Arianne was two heads taller than her husband and the room was filled with snickers until Doran shushed them.

The dance was over quickly but to Arianne’s dread and Aegon’s embarrassment the bedding ceremony was to begin. As was customary Doran, Oberyn, and Dany walked the couple to their rooms, closing and bolting the door behind them.

“Position four guards outside the door.” Said Doran to Arys Oakheart. “She is not to leave her room until the morrow.”

“What if she tries to climb down from the window?” asked Oberyn. He had seen her do it before.

Doran frowned. “Position four guards at the bottom of the wall. If she climbs down it, bring her right back up.” He said. “Make sure the windows are locked.”

“Did you check her for weapons before you closed the door?”

Doran looked thoughtful. “Unless she had weapons stashed…” he trailed off, opening the door again. Sure enough after a quick search of the room four knives, a broad sword, an axe, a mace, and a vial of poison were discovered, the latter of which having been hidden between her breasts.

Doran gave her a stern look and once again shut the door, rolling his chair back down to the feast. Oberyn was about to leave as well when he heard the unmistakable sound of words and raised an eyebrow. He turned to tell Dany to halt but found she had already pressed her ear to the door and she grinned up at him, shrugging.

He liked her already. “You embarrassed me tonight.” Said Aegon, his voice muffled through the door. Oberyn could hear the sounds of clothing being rustled.

Arianne laughed coldly, dropping the golden pins from her hair and bangles from her wrists. “You embarrassed me by living.” She said. “By standing at my side. Every breath you take is an embarrassment to me.”

He and Dany exchanged a look.


	45. Dany

_Chapter Forty-Five_

_Oberyn Martell_

Oberyn Martell had always prided himself in being able to identify people. To instantly be able to pinpoint a person’s weakness or their shortcomings. Without fail he could always tell if a man was lying, a skill he had learned before he had even hit puberty.

The Prince was old enough to be wizened to the ways of the world and certainly old enough to read a woman like most men read books, as he had so often in the past.

But Daenerys. She was as foreign to him as her customs. In every way she was a Targaryen, her hair silvery-gold, her eyes bright violet, her skin smooth and pale as porcelain.

When his brother had first proposed their marriage both Martell’s had assumed she would be innocent and malleable because she was just a girl. But perhaps Oberyn had underestimated her.

The way Daenerys walked had caused half the men in Dorne to turn their heads, their eyes following her long after she had turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked and when dressed in the Dornish fashion her movements were only accentuated by the tightness and sheer nature of the fabric.

At Aegon’s wedding Dany had been asked to dance half a hundred times and with each dance there only came more invitations. She had worn a light blue gown that was tight around her torso and loose everywhere else and as she was spun her skirt circled around her like a bell, ever so often revealing bits of flesh reserved only for him.

But she was beautiful. The way her eyes sparkled and her rosy lips smiled at every man she danced with Oberyn could practically hear the hearts breaking in every corner of the room.

And when they were alone the urge to kiss her became so overwhelming at times it was painful. They slept in the same bed, though Oberyn remained a top the sheets as was proper. Sometimes he watched her as she slept, the way her eyelids fluttered or her lips parted as if she were about to speak.

The first time Daenerys had had a nightmare she had sat bolt upright in bed, struggling as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her breathing was heavy and uneven and her hand moved across the blankets as she felt for someone.

 _Aegon, most like_ , Oberyn had though.

But instead she had come up with his hand, her fingers entwining with his. “It’s alright.” He whispered to her, pulling her close to him. She rested her head upon his chest, her hand resting on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. “It’s alright.” He repeated, his hand stroking her long hair.

There was no need to say anything more. There had been no need to speak at all. Instead they had lay there for hours in the darkness, his arm pillowing her head, his other arm wrapped around her waist and his hand resting atop her thigh.

Oberyn could not remember the last time he had slept with a woman. Just slept beside her without the need to touch or kiss or feel bare skin on skin. He had just laid there, feeling her back against his chest, her legs tangled in his. The feel of her bare legs against his was arousing but she made no comment as he felt himself stiffen against her.

Originally he had thought she was asleep, but as the sky lightened he could see her eyes open in the reflection of the window. Together they watched the sun rise through the window before them, watching as the sun turned from black to orange to blue all in silence.

But there was still a mystery to her he could not solve. Even as he watched her, spent time with her, spoke animatedly with her, he still could not place her.

It was clear she put a high priority to her family. The way she cared for Aegon showed that clearly. It was the way she touched his hair or smiled at him whenever he tried to impress her or waited patiently for him to finish showing her the new fighting styles the master-at-arms had taught him.

Standing beside her Oberyn had smiled when Dany revealed her gifts to Aegon. A stack of books she said that he should read, a soft feather quill, and a dragon’s egg. “Dany.” He had said and hugged her, his face pressing into her chest as his arms wrapped around her. “She hates me Dany.”

“She does not hate you.” Daenerys promised, though she knew his words were true. “She does not know you. Imagine if the situation was reversed and you were arranged to marry someone you did not know, someone younger than you, someone foreign to you.”

“Give her time.” Said Oberyn, putting a hand on Aegon’s slight shoulder. “She will warm up to you. Arianne seems rough on the outside but she is truly kind on the inside. This I promise.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Said Aegon.

“Oberyn.” He corrected. Aegon repeated the word under his breath.

 _She’ll eat him alive_ , Oberyn thought.  


	46. The Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tyrion reveals the truth to Sansa.

_Chapter Forty-Six_

_Tyrion Lannister_

Faster than Tyrion would have thought their wounds healed and there was nothing but scars and memories to remind them of the Karstark’s betrayal.

Tyrion watched Sansa closely. She was thinner, clearly not eating, thought all the food he brought her seemed to mysteriously disappear. It would not surprise him to find out that she had been feeding it to her dragons and leaving nothing for herself.

“What are their names?” Tyrion had asked.

Sansa stroked the red dragon’s head, her fingers brushing against her scales. “Arry.” She said. “For my sister.” Tyrion remembered Arya from his trip to Winterfell and from seeing her wandering the halls of King’s Landing.

She pointed to where the smallest of the dragons with jade green scales and jade green eyes, lay sleeping. “Lady.” She said and gave a small laugh. “It sounds foolish I know but…it’s something from my childhood. A fond memory.”

“You can use all of the fond memories you can get.” He said. “We all can.” He stroked her arm with his short fingers. “And that one?” he asked, pointing to the dragon circling the sun.

Sansa looked thoughtful for a moment before meeting his eyes. “Rhaegal.” She said. “After the last dragon.”

 _Rhaegar Targaryen. The last dragon_. “Rhaegar was not the last dragon.” Tyrion said.

She met his eyes, her indigo eyes watching him unfalteringly. “Yes.” She said. “Daenerys and Aegon and Viserys.”

“No.” began Tyrion. Sansa would have to find out sooner or later. She had the right to know. If the situation were reversed Tyrion would want to know the truth, even if it killed him, even if it hurt him. She raised an auburn eyebrow. “Viserys is dead.” He finished.

Her brows furrowed. “No.” she said. She looked confused, sitting up straighter and disturbing Arry as she lay in her lap. The dragon squealed and looked at her, resting her head on Sansa’s stomach, urging her to continue petting her. “No he can’t be. I saw him.” she said. “I saw him.”

Tyrion scooted closer to her, thinking perhaps he had drank one cup too many of wine. “You saw him?” he clarified.

She nodded. “In a dream. I saw Daenerys and Aegon and Viserys.”

He shook his head to clear it. “Sansa…I don’t understand.”

Lady awoke, as if she too wanted to listen to Sansa’s tale. “I saw a baby called Aegon and a girl was holding him. A little girl with silver hair and purple eyes and she was singing to him. A song I had never heard. Then she looked at me. Right at me, Tyrion. Like she could see me. And she spoke to me.”

            Tyrion raised himself up on one elbow, watching, and waiting for her to continue. “What did she say?” he asked.

“And she said ‘there must be one more’ and then there was another baby, fair and soft and light eyed. But the baby had dark hair. Brown or dark red, I don’t know. And the girl said ‘a dragon has three heads.’”

 _Daenerys and Aegon and Sansa. The three headed dragon_. “Sansa there is something you must know. Something about your parents. Ned made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you but…but a long time has passed and things are changing and I have to tell you.”

“Tell me then.” Said she flatly.

Rhaegal swooped into the tent and landed beside Sansa, his great black wings spreading. “It’s about your mother.”

“What about her?”

“Not Catelyn. Your true mother.” He said.

And so Sansa listened without interruption. Her violet eyes watched her unblinkingly, as if testing to see if he was telling the truth.

Tyrion told her of the Mad King and his hatred of Elia Martell and how she had to hide her mother’s belly. And Rhaegar Targaryen with his sword and his silver hair and his love for Lyanna Stark.

He told her of the start of Robert’s Rebellion and the day the Targaryen’s had been slaughtered while Sansa was hidden away in another room. When Sansa asked why Tyrion could not answer as he was not there, but he presumed it to be because Sansa was being taken care of by Ashara Dayne, Elia’s handmaiden.

“But Ned heard you crying.” Said Tyrion. “He went to you before the Mountain could and stole you away before you could meet the same fate. He brought you home to Winterfell and claimed you as his own. He was the most honorable man I knew,” he said, frowning. “And what he did is the most honorable thing I have ever seen a man do.”

“And Jon?” was the first question Sansa asked.

“A true Stark.” Said Tyrion. “He adopted the name Snow to protect you.”

“Protect me?” she breathed.

“The people of Winterfell knew Ned and Catelyn had only five children. But suddenly there were six when Ned returned from the war. So they had to pretend. And the rest of you looked so similar, only Jon shared different traits. And so he was named Snow and you Stark.”

“Who else knows?” asked Sansa.

“The Maester at Winterfell who made the drops to dye your eyes blue instead of purple. Elia’s brother, Oberyn Martell. Myself.” He said. “No others that I know of. But they have their suspicions. That is why you had to leave King’s Landing.”

“So Daenerys is…”

“Your aunt.” Said Tyrion. “And Aegon your brother.”

“No.” said Sansa. “My brothers are Robb and Bran and Rickon.”

“Sansa-“

“I may be called a Targaryen but I am a Stark.” She said.

“You are a Targaryen.” Said Tyrion firmly. “You have the violet eyes of a Targaryen. You have the dragons of a Targaryen. You were not burned when Karstark threw you in the fire. You can call yourself a Stark, you can acknowledge Ned and Catelyn as your parents, because they are your parents. But your blood is red and black. Your blood is Targaryen.”


	47. The Sand Snakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: slow burn and seductive eating of fruit ahead.

_Chapter Forty-Seven_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

Oberyn’s daughters were just what they were colloquially called: snakes.

Obara Sand was not particularly beautiful but she was as skilled with a spear as her father, her hands nimble and quick. Dany had once seen her strike a rabbit through the eye from half a hundred feet away.

Nymeria was elegant and beautiful, wearing her hair in the same fashion as Arianne, bound with copper wires. She wore the same clothes as she did, wispy fabrics, sheer materials. Whenever she stood before a light Dany could see every inch of her.

Besides Nymeria, Tyene was the most beautiful. But while her sisters were olive skinned and dark haired, she was pale and blonde, her eyes the color of jeweled marbles. In the gardens Dany often heard her speaking of herbs and potions and once, with Dany’s help, Tyene had found an herb she had spent nearly a month trying to find.

Tyene had smiled and thanked her, promising that the next time she ventured into the forest, she would bring Daenerys with her.

Elia Sand was kind from the beginning, offering to take Dany riding with her, as she did nearly every afternoon. They had spent the day riding through the many fields of flowers Dany learned that Dorne possessed, picking apples and pomegranates and oranges from the trees and letting the sweet juices run down their chin as they ate.

The flowers were so beautiful and so many colors that neither girl could pick their favorite, coming back to the caste with armfuls of rainbow flowers that would be put in vases and displayed.

Dany did not see much of Oberyn’s youngest daughters. Tyene said they were separated, some of them having been called into royal service as cupbearers or future handmaidens, while the others were with their mother somewhere Tyene did not know.

But Arianne Martell was the one that seemed the most treacherous to Daenerys. Dany and Aegon had been sitting in the gardens, watching Oberyn swim in the Water Gardens and sharing a sliced pear.

“Oh.” Arianne said upon seeing them, stopping in her tracks. “I thought I would have some peace in the gardens but I see now that I will not.”

Dany watched her through her violet eyes, scanning her from head to toe and analyzing her as she had every person she had met since her arrival at Dorne. “Yes.” She agreed. “A snake in the garden has disturbed us as well.”

Arianne bristled at the notion. “Clever girl.” She chided. “But not so clever as I.”

“Is that so?” asked Dany. Aegon watched the exchange with the same vigor as one watches a joust. “I was under the influence that your main talents were seduction and the art of wearing no smallclothes.”

Arianne laughed. “Careful Aegon. Do not cut yourself on that sharp wit of your aunts.”

“He won’t.” Dany replied coolly, eating another slice of pear. “It is more like he will cut himself on the sharp tongue of yours.”

Arianne Martell looked almost proud. “Daenerys Targaryen.” She said, as if testing the weight of the words on her tongue. “I have heard much about you. But no one has ever said anything about your tongue.”

Dany’s eyes flashed. “Oh I promise.” Dany said. “My talent of tongue is often talked of.”

Arianne gave an animated laugh, her cheeks flushing with amusement.  When she looked back at Daenerys it was as if seeing her for the first time. “I’m having tea in my chambers in a few hours.” Said she, her brown eyes sparkling. “I would like it very much if you would join me.”

“So I shall.” Said Dany, returning her smile.

Aegon and Arianne left the gardens, leaving Dany to her pear and her view, lying on her back on the stone chair and staring up at the sky. There were little clouds today, thought enough to block the sun and Dany stared up at them, trying to decipher their shapes.

Suddenly there was a face over hers and she sat up so fast that her forehead clunked against Oberyn’s. Laughing, he sat down opposite her, pulling her legs onto his lap. “Sorry to frighten you my lady.” He said, leaning his head against the stone seat. “I just wished to hear more of this talented tongue.”

Dany laughed and Oberyn watched her. When she laughed her nose crinkled at the top and her pale cheeks turned pink, a truly endearing look to Oberyn.

“Arianne likes you.” He said, an attempt to distract himself from the slope of her neck and the curve of her smile. “It seems all my daughters do.”

“Oh?” said she, offering him a slice of her pear.

Oberyn took the pear from her thin fingers. His warm lips brushed against her palm and made a shiver run down her body from head to toe. “They are not the only ones.” He said.

Her wrist smelled of the perfume she had rubbed there and mixed with the scent of her skin Oberyn was sure it was the sweetest thing he had ever smelled.

“Oh?” Daenerys repeated, feeding him another slice of pear and watching his tongue run over his bottom lip to collect the juice.

“My darling, you tease me.” said he.

Oberyn’s hand rested above her knee, Daenerys able to feel the warmth even through her silks. It was warmth that traveled all the way up her leg to a part of her that had never been touched. A part of her that ached for Oberyn’s touch.

“Do not blame me.” said she, coyly. “Blame my tongue. It has a mind of its own.”

“Oh yes.” Said Oberyn, warmth blooming in his belly like fire. “That I can see.”


	48. The Name

_Chapter Forty-Eight_

_Sansa Stark_

_Targaryen_.

The earliest memory Sansa had was of her mother holding her in her arms. Catelyn’s nimble fingers had twisted her red hair into two long braids until Sansa wiggled too much that the braids came out lopsided and messy. But Catelyn had only laughed and pulled Sansa into her lap, laughing even louder by the second at the sight of her hair.

_Targaryen_.

Riding on Ned Stark’s shoulders. Sansa was so tall that she could reach up and touch the red leaves of the Heart Tree. They had crumbled in her fingers like they were made of dust and left streaks of red on her palms.

_Targaryen_.

Master Luwin and the drops he told Sansa to put in her eyes. “They will make you see more clearly.” The old man had promised. Sansa was barely old enough to walk. “They will give you the eyes of a knight.” He had not needed to say more. At the mention of being a knight Sansa had nearly bathed in the stuff.

She had been chastised more than once for putting too many drops in her eyes. “But father.” she had wined. “I want to be a knight like you!”

Her father had kissed her cheek softly. She could still feel the brush of his beard against her. “And you will be, my darling.” Ned had said, pulling her into his arms.

_Targaryen._

Playing Knights and Maidens with Jon and Robb. Having Robb hide under her skirt. Wrestling with Theon over who would get to wear the crown and who would get to hold the long stick they pretended was a sword.

_Targaryen._

Jon’s arms around her. His bare chest against hers. His eyes like dark coals as they swept up her naked body, inspecting every inch of her as if he was trying to memorize it. His warm hand on her thigh. His warm mouth on hers. His tongue twisting against hers as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her on top of him in his bed.

His flesh riddled with gooseflesh, the furs that had once warmed them forgotten. Sansa straddling him, her legs on either side of his stomach as she looked down at him.

_Targaryen._

Her fingers brushing against the scar on Jon’s shoulder. Her lips on Jon’s shoulder. Jon.

_Targaryen._

Watching Jon ride away. Watching the frown that stretched across his face. The pain in his eyes. The tears that ran down her face. Catelyn had thought she was just sad to leave her brother, but she would never know. She would never know the truth. The way Sansa watched Jon ride away, the pain in her chest feeling as if he had taken a part of her away with him.

“You will marry him.” said Ned Stark. Joffery Baratheon. Cruel, blonde, small Joffrey Baratheon. The Joffrey Baratheon that had struck her sister. The Joffery Baratheon that had the butcher’s boy killed. The Joffrey Baratheon that had later struck her and stripped her, leaving long, jagged scars on her back.

_Targaryen_.

The sound her father’s head had made when it hit the wooden platform. The cheers that had come from the crowd. The smile on Joffrey’s face. The absence of Arya. Cersei Lannister screaming. Ned Stark’s headless body. The way his hair was matted to his forehead with blood. The way his eyes were open, to remain open forever. As if he was still watching over her.

_Targaryen_.

Khal Drogo. How scared she had been of him at first. How much she had loved him after all. The way the bells in his hair had blown in the wind and made such a sweet sound. The way he had smiled at her, rubbed her stomach, talked to her stomach when he thought she was asleep.

_Targaryen_.

Rickard Karstark. The pain. The way the blade had felt as it went into her stomach. The way Eddard had looked when she held him in her arms. His blood. Her blood. Drogo’s blood. The witch’s screams.

_Targaryen_.

The way the fire had licked her skin, burning away her clothes until nothing remained but cinders. The way her skin had not been burned. The way her hair remained. The way her eyes had lost their blue and gained the purple she found they had always possessed.

Arry and Lady and Rhaegal. Her dragons. Her children. Babies. Baby dragons.

Tyrion Lannister. Scarred.

Rhaegar and Elia Martell. People she had never known. Parents she had never known.

_Targaryen_

Dead. Both of them. Her blood. Her true mother and father. Dead. Robert’s Rebellion. The Baratheon’s once again hurting her.

That’s who she was. Who she truly was. Not a Stark but a Targaryen.

In name only. Sansa belonged to the North. She belonged to the snow and the ice and the cold. To the direwolves. To the Starks. To Robb and Catelyn and Ned and Arya and Bran and Rickon. And Jon.

_Targaryen_.

The name she doubted she could never forget. The way Tyrion had said it. the way he had always looked at her now made sense. Cersei and Joffery and Tommen and Tywin it all made sense. Why she was so important. Why she was kept prisoner in King’s Landing. Why Tywin had married her to the Khal. Why they had sent the Karstark’s to kill her.

_Targaryen_

She ached for Jon. He was the only one who would understand. A bastard. He knew what it felt like to be lost. To be between two families. To be alone. Jon.

_Targaryen_.

“Have you chosen a name?” asked Tyrion. “What we shall introduce you as?” Arry let out a shriek and landed before Sansa, folding her wings against her back. Lady nuzzled her spiked head against Sansa’s hand.

“I have.” Said Sansa. Rhaegal was hunting, she could barely see the black shadow he cast against the sun. She could hear his shrieks.

“And?” the youngest Lannister asked.

She sighed. “Targaryen.”


	49. The Sparrows

_Chapter Forty-Nine_

_Cersei Lannister_

Osney Kettleblack was handsome enough. But with his dark hair and dark eyes he was the exact opposite of Jaime. Perhaps that is what she needed. Someone to help her forget about her golden haired brother.

But he was foolish. Too foolish.

The Queen Regent had given him a simple task. Seduce Margaery Tyrell. Cersei already knew the little bitch was whoring around, she just needed proof.

Margaery called herself a maiden. The thought made her laugh. Margaery Tyrell was as much a maiden as Cersei was. She had seen the way she flitted about the castle, slipped into Tommen’s room in the dead of night. Whisper things into his ear. Make him laugh. The thought of the little rose bitch touching Tommen made Cersei sick.

She constantly surrounded herself with men. Knights and fools and cousins. Cersei knew she was sleeping with one of them. If not more than one.

Cersei had even allowed Kettleblack to bed her, more than once yet he had still been foolish enough to allow Margaery to slip from his grasp.

His touch was clumsy and harsh, his breath ragged, and his sweat stank of wine and horses as he trust on top of her. Cersei counted the minutes until she was done to she could wipe herself free of him, sending him off.

“Do not fail.” She warned him at her door.

The knight adjusted his belt, grinning. His cheeks were flushed with pleasure. “I won’t.”

But he had. The fool. Margaery Tyrell had outsmarted him, not that it was so difficult a task. She had only responded to his attempts to bed her with japes and gentle flirtation. But she had not allowed the knight to touch her and that is what Cersei needed.

Just one slip up and she could rid herself of all the Tyrell’s. Mace and Loras and Olenna. _Rotten roses_.

Osney stared at her. “You want me to do what?”

Cersei sighed. She had already told him six times. Six. She had counted. “Go to the Great Sept and speak to the High Septon. High Sparrow they call him.” she scoffed. “Tell him that the little rose spread her legs for you. Tell him she spread her legs for many men. Swear to him. Promise him that she is not a maiden.”

“Why?” he asked.

Cersei resisted the urge to smash her wineglass over his head. “Because I ask it of you.” She said.

He nodded. “Yes, my lady.” And disappeared through the door.

A day had barely passed when Cersei heard shouts and threw open the door to her room. The sight before her nearly made her burst with happiness. Margaery was being led away by a few of the Septon’s sparrows, her arms bound behind her back and her face pale with fear.

Tommen was walking beside her, demanding to know why she was being taken. Loras was at her other side, asking the same thing, thought his voice had escalated to a shout.

“Lady Margaery Tyrell is accused of adultery and treason. She will await trial in the High Sept of Baelor.” Said one of the sparrows.

Margaery looked up, her eyes meeting Cersei’s. The Queen Regent smiled and took a sip of her wine, twiddling her fingers as the future queen.

_No, not Queen_ , she thought. _Margaery Tyrell. Queen no longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else dying to see this scene in the new season? I can't wait!


	50. The Song of Ice and Fire

_Chapter Fifty_

_Jon Snow_

There was a knock at his door. His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright and despite the heavy snow, a thin sheen of swear had appeared on his forehead. The knocking grew louder and as he bid enter, a figure struggled through the doorway.

Jon fumbled for his sword. His vision was blurred and he could see nothing but streaks of red and black before him. “Lord Commander.” Said a voice.

“My lady?” Jon questioned.

Melisandre kneeled before her bedside, throwing herself on top of him. Her face swam before him and Jon vaguely remembered Maester Aemon giving him something to sleep before. “You are needed.” She said. “As soon as possible.”

Throwing off the blankets, Jon dressed quickly. He had made it halfway down the hall before realizing he did not know where he was going. “To Maester Aemon’s chambers.” Said she, hurrying down the corridor.

Halfway muffled through the door Jon could hear the sounds of struggle. He threw open the door with a knife in his hand but found the old Maester alone, so tightly wrapped in blankets until he nearly disappeared. Jon would not even have seen him had it not been for a puff of white hair coming out the top of the blanket.

“Build a fire!” he instructed one of the stewards who stood outside the door. “Then go. Make sure nobody is outside the door.”

Jon knelt at Aemon’s bedside. His hands were cold as ice and his shoulders trembled. His face had long ago paled and his skin was papery thin. Jon and Melisandre exchanged a look.

Aemon was muttering under his breath and Jon had to put his ear just before the man’s cracked lips to hear. “Dragons.” He said. His words were broken and lost, coming forward not in sentences but in phrases. “Dragon’s are neither male nor female.”

“What does he mean?” asked Jon.

“I do not know.” Melisandre responded. She sat on the other side of the bed, her heat warming the old man until he stopped shivering completely.

The old man wept, wailing now. The sound carried and Jon was glad he had sent the stewards away. “The prince that was promised.” Whispered Aemon. He was not conscious, slipping into a state between being awake and asleep. “His song is the song of ice and fire.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen’s prophecy.” Said Melisandre in disbelief. Her hand tightened around his and the ruby at her throat glowed. “The Prince that was promised.”

“When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers.” Continued Aemon.

“The red star?” said Jon. “What star?”

“Lord Commander.” Said Melisandre, her red eyes meeting hers. “Have you not seen?”

She moved to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Aemon’s was the only room with a view of the sky, which many had said was wasted on the old man. But the Maester liked to place his hands on the glass and feel the warmth from the sun or the harsh blow of cold.

But Jon was not blind and he gasped, taking a step back in surprise. “The bleeding star.” Said he. Melisandre had often spoken of it but he had not believed it. _Not until now_. Streaked across the sky was a brush of bright red, as if a painter had upturned one of his paints and left a stain across the sky.

“Star’s don’t fall for men.” Said Melisandre. “This means one thing: dragons.”

“The dragons are all dead.” Said Jon firmly.

“No.” wailed Maester Aemon, twisting in his blankets. “No. Three.”

“Three what?” asked Jon.

“Three dragons.” Whispered Melisandre. “This I have seen in my fires. Three dragons and one woman.”

“The prince that was promised.” Repeated Aemon.

“What prince?” asked Jon. “Prince Tommen?”

“The prince that was promised!” Aemon half screamed. “Dragons are neither male nor female.”

Melisandre turned to him and opened her mouth to speak but was silenced. “The dragon must have three heads.” Interrupted Aemon. “But I am too old to be one of them…I should be with her…showing her the way...but my body has betrayed me.”

“Showing who?” asked Melisandre. “Daenerys Targaryen?”

“No.” said Jon. The pieces began to fall in place. Jon’s legs turned to pudding and he was suddenly on the floor, a jarring pain in his back telling him that he fell. “Dragons are neither male nor female.” He repeated.

“Lord Commander?” asked Melisandre, at his side in seconds.

He turned to look at her. “Sansa.”

“Your sister?” she asked.

“No.” he whispered. “She was never my sister. She is the blood of a dragon.”

“The three headed dragon.” Whispered Melisandre. Her face paled. “Aegon, Daenerys, Sansa.”

Jon nodded. “When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers.” He whispered, stroking Aemon’s hands.

“Dragons are neither male not female.” She repeated weakly. Her red eyes widened. “She is the prince that was promised.” Said Melisandre, standing so abruptly that she nearly pulled all the blankets from Aemon’s hands. “Hers is the song of ice and fire.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Author note:**

Before the Eyes of Gods and Men was my first ever major game of thrones fanfiction. i had just finished watching the series and barely finished the books and i was so excited about the material that I wanted to give my own take on it. i will be the first to admit the juvenile and irritating writing in this fic, as once again, it was my _**first.**_  i don't know how many of you have stuck around over the years but i think that as time has gone by i’ve increased in knowledge and skill, and the fics after this are much more complete and are all around just...better.

over the years some of you have taken it upon yourselves to comment on this fic and not only insult my writing but to insult me as a person- clearly having missed the childhood lesson of "if you have nothing nice to say say nothing at all." i’ve been called “vain” and “egotistical” i’ve been called a bitch, an idiot, and half a hundred other names. but still i persisted in writing this fic because i believed in it and i was excited by it.

as my skill level increased my interest in continuing such a cringeworthy fic decreased and combined with your rude comments i just never returned to this fic. but after the final two chapters of _[fire and blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6550435/chapters/14986519)_ are posted i have plans to delete this fic and completely revamp it. i will rewrite BTEOGAM from the first chapter to the last, hopefully making it less...yikes.

i'm sorry to have kept you hanging over the years and I hope that you will read the new fic, which i will link onto this one, when it is finished.


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